


Winter Robin

by mrsbarnes1o7



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Angst, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Plums, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I promise, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Protective Bucky Barnes, Slow Build, bucky likes blue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 186,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6815977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsbarnes1o7/pseuds/mrsbarnes1o7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.” </p><p>― Stephen King, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption: A Story from Different Seasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! This is my very first story, I'm really excited, but nervous at the same time. I just hope you like it, even maybe love it, just as much as I love writing it. It's set between The Winter Soldier and Civil War, and we'll reach the events of the later by the end of the story. Smut? Yes, there will be, but in a very emotional way. Fluff (hell of a lot of fluff), angst and violence. An important thing you should know is that this story will be told by both Bucky's and my OFC's in a back and forth narrative, and I hope I make it work properly. Please, feel free to ask me anything, make suggestions or critics, I will answer all of them.
> 
> Enjoy! :D

I always loved rainy days. The smell of wet streets and the cold caress of the wind against the skin of my face. The soaked sound of shoes passing by and voices growing quiet. I always loved the coldness and comforting loneliness that arrived with every raindrop. But today is different, today feels wrong. 

I look around and I see people looking for shelter, dogs and cats are hiding under some old and forgotten furniture in the dark of the alleys. My lungs are broken and my skin is frozen, the raindrops pierce my shoulders, but I don’t look for shelter. I close my eyes hoping it would all disappear. I’m sitting in the middle of a bench waiting for it to end like it could actually stop, then I open my eyes and I look around me once again but there’s no one there. Suddenly, my body feels so heavy that I can’t help but fall, my head hits the metal in a deaf sound and it doesn’t hurt. I just stay there.

_‘Bayu-bayushki-bayu nye lozhisya na krayu. Pridyot serenkiy volchok I ukhvatit za bochok.'_

The song plays on my lips and every word tangles softly around my teeth. I know I’m not far from slumber, I can touch it with my fingertips, but it refuses to set me free. I cry, the raindrops make up my tears, it seems like the clouds felt pity for me, or vice versa. Age after age I wait until the demons seal my eyelids, and I’m lost. Dreams never catch my mind, there’s just emptiness and blurry memories behind it. I repeat a prayer; I ask for forgiveness. I want redemption, but God has no mercy left for me. I am nobody.

_'On ukhvatit za bochok I potashchit vo lesok, pod rakitovyi kustok…’_

I sing and sing because it reminds me of warmer times and colder places. When I stop feeling the rain, I open my eyes. I look up to the sky, but everything I see is an ocean of grey reality, and I let it take me back. The world seems different, the air I breathe poisons my lungs and the cold of the bench makes me shiver. I know it’s time to go back. I stand up and walk, my body moves automatically, leading me to an unknown somewhere. As I walk, I start to recognize my surroundings: people staring at me, my feet dragging me through the sidewalk and the high building I live in coming into sight.

 _‘Excuse me, are you ok?’_ , I hear someone ask. An old woman is standing by my right, she’s frowning at me, question in her blue eyes. I wonder why would she ask me such thing and then I look at myself, realizing that I’m soggy to the bones. I mentally chuckle.

 _‘Yes’_ , my voice scares me for a second, it’s like a coarse muffled sound.

 _‘You’re going to catch a cold, child’_ , she says, not believing me for one second and she turns, walking away from me. I do my best to ignore the wave of shame that climbs up my spine, it must be the cold of the rain, I tell myself. I go back on my way to my building, the entrance has been renovated a couple of months ago, it looks more American. I like it.

I walk lazily towards the stairs, cursing under my breath for choosing a flat on the ninth floor. Every step that I take steals a considerable amount of oxygen from my lungs and when I’m a few steps away from my floor I’m already gasping, trying not to faint right there in front of someone’s door. I sit on one of the steps to recover, my clothes are still damp and they cling to my body like a second skin. I’m trembling a little. The old woman was probably right and I’ll catch a nasty cold. I don’t feel like walking anymore, or standing even, so I crawl (yes, crawl) towards my respective apartment’s door, but I don’t go inside immediately, instead, I just lay against the door. Although my breathing is stabilized, I’m dizzy and exhausted, not physically, but mentally and emotionally. The monotony caught me and left me spinning in a space it seemed I would never find solid ground. I knew everything, but I didn’t feel acquainted with the world around me. I knew where my house was, but it didn’t feel like home; I knew where my work was, but it didn’t feel like something I should be doing. I knew where my life was, but it didn’t feel like it belonged to me. I had lost my life, but I didn’t know where or when. Retrieving as much as energy as I can, I stand up first on my knees, then fully straight and when I’m about to open my door, someone comes out of the next one. 

A tall guy is looking at me right now. He’s wearing a black shirt with a dark green not-so-warm jacket and a worn-out pair of jeans. Even though a black cap is covering most of his face, I can notice he has long, fine brown hair and a growing stubble. He looks at me almost with the same questioning eyes, which are piercing blue, as the old woman from the street, but he shows no worry on them, just strangeness and maybe a little amusement. He frowns at me; he’s making me nervous. He doesn’t’ stop looking right through me and I’m frightened. This guy is dangerous. I know, I feel it. It’s not because of his appearance, but because of his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, his tensed shoulders slightly leaning forward, his gloved fists tightened into a ball and his feet, one before the other, ready to attack. His whole body language screams danger and fear. It’s like a caged animal who’s been set free, trying to fight the primal instinct of defensive response. I know because I’ve seen it before. I try to gulp the knot in my throat that formed at the memory and the picture of someone loved and long lost.

I move slowly, turning towards him. I clear my throat and I make a poor attempt to smile while I put my hand at each side of my body. I try to show him my every move and make him feel more relaxed, or at least less murder tempted.

_‘Hello, you must be my new neighbor’_ , my voice doesn’t sound as bad as before. Thanks God. A couple of months ago, the chubby, pink I-listen-your-every-breath woman who lived next to me had a heart attack and her children took her with them to live, hopefully, to the end of the world. Thanks God. And apparently, the apartment already has been inhabited. _‘Welcome’_. He nods with his eyes on the ground, but his posture is indeed less tense. Thanks God. I wait for him to introduce himself and I should do the same, but I’m about to pass out and he seems reluctant to prolong our encounter. _‘Have a nice evening’_ , my wishes are answered by another tiny nod and he practically runs downstairs. I turn to open my door and I enter without looking back to my new weirdo of a neighbor.

The moisture in the air makes me scrunch my nose. I leave my small purse on the mattress I use as bed and I sit to take off my shoes and stockings. Suddenly I’m aware of the kind of clothes I’m wearing and why. I remember how I ended up caught by the rain. I remember the warm of the church and the emptiness of the words I was listening. I didn’t stay until it was finished, I couldn’t stand someone speaking about peace and forgiveness like it’s something we all deserve, because I know I lost that chance ages ago and now everything I deserve is exile, forgetfulness, everything that’s pushing me away from home. I pretend I belong here, that I can somehow fit in the world again, but I’ve been lying myself for so long that I’m starting to believe I ever will. 

When I stand up and make my way to the bathroom, all my clothes have been dismissed. I gaze at the naked upper-half of my body in the mirror and I notice the mess that is my face. The makeup I put on this morning, the remaining of, is likely to be the reason my neighbor ran away from me. The raccoon-joker-drunk-prostitute version of me grimaces. I take a washcloth and start to rub it less than gracefully against my skin. When I finish, I consider to take a shower but decide against it. I’m tired of water. My clock sets five, then six and then nine. I’m drawing a bunch of misshapen butterflies on the wall above my bed with a purple nail polish I found. I grab my vintage Polaroid and take a picture of them. The dim light of my lamp serves as an unexpected filter effect. I put the camera next to the mattress and I look up to the glow-in-the-dark stars I glued when I arrived to this building. They look nice and they’re somehow comforting. My mind sets on procrastinator-mood and I start to think again, this time asking itself why I am here. Of all the places I planned on visiting, Bucharest was never on the list. It never seemed attractive, nor interesting in any possible way. It was just a place on the Earth, but the reason I decided to stay, is because it's a blind spot, a leverage, the perfect hiding place. I half-close my eyes but sleep refuses to take me. Lucky me. 

_‘Bayu-bayushki-bayu nye lozhisya na krayu. Pridyot serenkiy volchok I ukhvatit za bochok.'_

I start to sing again, but this time there are no ghosts hunting me, just stardust and moonlight. I notice how heavy my eyelids feel, but I keep moving my lips while my voice fades away. I hear someone’s door is being opened. I hear the key slides through its door lock, I hear it turn and being pulled away.

  _'On ukhvatit za bochok I potashchit vo lesok, pod rakitovyi kustok…’_

And then, I hear him close the door at the same time I fully close my eyes and the demons take my dreams.


	2. Strange

I always hated rainy days. Well, I think I’ve always had. My eyes are focused on the empty ceiling while I try to sort out if it’s a truth or just another implanted thought. I toss and turn on the sheets until I’m covered by them, hiding. Just hiding.

The past few months have been a blur. I’ve been running, stealing supplies, jumping from country to country until I felt confident enough to stop. I’m in Romania, and thanks to some good money I could get, I’m able to hire this room in the suburbs. Ever since I left The States some memories have returned; some others seem like a distant dream I don’t remember dreaming. I remember pale faces, white coats and loaded guns. I remember familiar smiles, blue eyes and broken promises. I remember falling, the ice and crashing metal, but my mind refuses to own every one of them, like they were made up by same terrors that created this machine I’ve become. The faces I do recognize bring sorrow with them and make my chest ache. The words I still listen in my head should have been left unspoken because I don’t trust them. I don’t know who I was, but I know what I’ve been and I’m trying to find out who will I be. I’m no more the soldier who died in the ice, nor the killer that came up from it. I’m someone in-between, a newborn in this cosmic new world. But I’m lost all the while. The only certain thing is that I don’t like the cold air that surrounds the incredibly small room. It reminds me of an endless winter, of a mother land that never offered me a warm embrace. I’m starting to feel sick. The images cloud my mind and I don’t now where I am. I close my eyes and take deep, long breaths. _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._ No. My name is _Bucky_. I repeat to myself while I fight against the urge to break something and scream until my throat is burning. _You’re far away from them. You’re safe._ When I open my eyes I realize I’m on my knees now, ready to attack, ready to kill. _They’re coming for you. Run. Kill. Kill them all._ My fist hits the ground hard enough to make it crack. I curse.

Since ‘relaxing’ has been a complete failure, I think a walk might be better. At least it will help to clear my mind. Hopefully. I stand up, put on my cap and gloves and take my jacket off the chair. I look around the room and I tell myself I should get more clothes… and furniture. As I make my way towards the door, I hear heavy footsteps walking upstairs outside. My body tenses immediately and I’m ready to attack again. _Goddamnit, calm the hell down._ I take my time and the footsteps stop. _They’re here._ All I hear is an agitated breathing, no triggers or tactical movements. Just a damn breathing. I let go some air I find myself holding and I put my hand on the doorknob. And I push it open.

A girl is standing outside the next door. She’s wearing a long-sleeved black dress that ends barely beyond her knees. Bow-legged and soggy as hell. Her… blue hair sticks to her neck and collarbone, all pale skin still damp. Her ears are getting purple, just as her puffy slightly-open mouth. I look at her with more attention, unable no process the fact that her hair is blue, and I frown; she’s trembling and her hands are shaking. The makeup on her face is ruined, washed away by the rain, forming black tears falling from her big brown eyes. It looks like she had rubbed her lipstick with one of her sleeves. It’s kind of funny. Of all the things I could have done, I just stare at her. She’s afraid of me, I can tell by the way she’s looking back at me, the way she’s studying me and I feel the need to tell her to stay away, that she’s not safe around me, but my body reacts before something else happens. I’m ready to fight this girl. I’m ready to kill her without mercy. She turns to me and I adopt a defensive position. She clears her throat and tries to smile at me.

 _‘Hello, you must be my new neighbor’_ , I catch an accent, which means she’s not a native Romanian speaker. Her voice sounds a little gritty, like she hasn’t spoken for awhile. _‘Welcome’_. I’m standing here, a person is talking to me, trying to be polite, and I the only thing I can manage is a poor nod. My muscles relax and I look down at her feet. Did I really feel threatened by a girl who’s wearing a pair of muddy boots? So it seems. She’s waiting for me to answer, maybe tell her my name like any other human being does, but I’m not capable of something like that. We stay there a few more seconds until the silence becomes unbearably dense. _‘Have a nice evening’_ , she says. I’m uncomfortable, this encounter makes me feel out of place because is just too normal. Suddenly I’m furious. I need to punch something. I run away from her, from hurting her. She hasn’t done anything to me, she greeted me, for Lord’s sake.

When I’m outside, I take my time to catch my breath. A not-so-forgotten shame rises up my cheeks and I feel a faint blush warm my skin at the thought of me making myself an idiot in front of a nice girl that turned out to be my neighbor. Ordinary exchanges shouldn’t be that frightening, but then again, nothing ordinary should be anything less than that: ordinary. And I get angry again because I realize it’s one of the things that have been taken from me; the sense of normalcy. Sleeping without nightmares, walking down a street or talking to people were totally alien actions to me. I sigh in exasperation before I’m back into my senses. People do not give me a second look as they pass by, their heads are anchored to the floor or looking forward, fully immersed in their thoughts and where they're heading. I study my surroundings: the distance between each building, alleys that might serve as leak, hiding places and anything that could be used as a weapon, such as poles, mailboxes, culverts and guardrails. Anything.

I do a long and thorough sweep. I trace a 3-mile perimeter from the building I’m occupying, I memorize every store and house, trying to identify the owners. It’s a needle-sharp job that takes me the rest of the day to finish, but it’s necessary to ensure my safety while I’m here. By the time I’m done, the sky has turned dark and the lights paint the roads and sidewalks. The way back is calm, I feel better now that I’m acquainted with the zone and there are less possibilities to get caught. For one single moment I let myself be off-guard, I find a little comfort among the mass of people and my eyes close. 

A sudden wave of relief fills my chest and I let it warm my insides because I can’t take the cold anymore. Not just the cold of the air, but the remaining winter that hunts my peace, the burning coldness of that infernal, metal chair, the frozen and forgotten soul I once was, the arctic nightmares and the icy murders. I wonder how would it be, how could I fit in this city full of fake hope, and I wonder if I can ever see its true colors. I let myself imagine it, the illusion of a free life and endless sunlight where I breathe without suffocating, where I dream without nightmares, where I have control over my mind and body and I can talk to the blue-haired girl that lives next to me. Maybe. Someday, maybe. When I open my eyes, the glamour’s down. The dirty walls are narrowing around me, I’m their spotlight. Queer faces turn to me, I’m their freak. Reality stops and I’m a stranger in this world.

First thing I notice is that I’m outside my building, so I walk inside towards the stairs. It’s a square-spiral way to my flat. My body feels a little like jelly, not out of fatigue, but indeed the damned of a day I had has something to do with it. When I reach my floor, I hear a soft voice mingled with the air; it’s a woman’s voice, and she’s singing. As I approach her door, the voice gets louder, barely a whisper still, and I lean against the wood.

_‘…Pridyot serenkiy volchok I ukhvatit za bochok.'_

It’s a song I’ve never heard before. It’s Russian. The familiarity of the language brings a bitter taste to my mouth and makes me want to shut her up. I hesitate before removing myself from the door and head to mine. I take out the key and slide it through the lock, and when I turn it, my hand shakes. The rush of adrenaline stops my motions; I’m ready again. _Run. Fight. Kill. Kill them all._ I pray and beg for mercy. Not even when I’m supposed to be safe I’m free of those horrible memories. The cold. Russia. The winter. HYDRA. Somehow I manage to kick out my mind from that place and I remove the key, slower than I intend. 

_'On ukhvatit za bochok I potashchit vo lesok, pod rakitovyi kustok…’_

I step inside, closing the door at the same time her voice fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it... for now ;) I'll be updating asap, with some luck by Friday :D Have a wonderful week :)
> 
> PS: If you're interested, my Tumblr account is the same "mrsbarnes1o7". I post a lot about Bucky, or Sebs Stan, Chris Evans and stuff like that :P


	3. After Midnight

It’s late, really late. The alarm didn’t ring, I overslept and now I’m running like a soon-to-be-fired waitress, well, not actually running, but walking really fast. Even though my work-place is not far from my building, I’m pretty sure my boss will notice if I’m fifty minutes late. I get on the bus and try to calm my nerves and breathing. Sometimes I don’t know why I got a job in the first place. I didn’t want to, but I needed it. I needed to feel functional, to be useful, so when I saw the announcement over a year ago, I walked in the café and said ‘yes’ without too much of an effort. 

My boss is an interesting person. Mr. Tanase worked in the government for over thirty years in the Ministry of National Defense. He never held a gun or went to war, he was a diplomatic minister that tried to avoid any kind of conflict. He once told me that the humanity’s biggest irony was thinking they had the power either to start a war or stop it when they could never end the war against hunger, racism, slavery, all of them the very reason they were fighting for, so when he retired, he decided that he should serve his country in the most peaceful way he could: coffee.

 _‘You see, my dear, a cup of coffee is capable of merging two opposite poles, to warm a chest that’s only known coldness, to draw a smile in a tortured soul, and burn the sleep you don’t need’_ , he said to me in a quiet day of spring. 

Although he’s charismatic, a reflection of his former job, I think, friendly and sensible, he’s highly disciplined. I was a little startled when he hired me without minding my blue hair. He said it was a ‘nice touch to the place… in an unusual way’, and then asked me to hold it in a ponytail while I was at work. I’m not forced to wear a waitress uniform, just a white blouse and black jeans. As I said, diplomatic. His son, Costin, helps once in a while with deliveries, some other times, when there are too many costumers for me to handle, he helps behind the cash register. My first week encouraged me to stay, they were kind and patient while I was learning the business. They are good people. When I look through the window of the bus, I’m a few meters away from the café, so I push the button and walk out of it when it stops, hoping I can manage a good excuse for my delay. I fix my hair and clothes before I walk towards the crystal door, and thankfully, there aren’t customers. The day is going to be an easy one, as it looks. Mr. Tanase is behind the bar and reading a newspaper. He doesn’t lift his head when the bell rings as I come in and I gulp.

 _‘Good morning, Mr. Tanase’_ , I say in a cautious tone. He nods and stands up, and when he looks at me, he doesn’t seem mad.

 _‘Good morning’_ , he says and smiles, completely unfazed. I don’t know if I should run while I can or just accept whatever punishment he has for me, but he just turns and heads to the exit that leads to his house. Before he’s gone, the turns again and with a menacing tone, he tells me _‘First and last’_. I nod and he leaves. I should add ‘terrifying’ to his multiple characteristics. I sigh in relief and then I get to work. There’s not much to do, this is indeed one of those days I practically sit and wait.

I make myself a cup of coffee, thinking about he past couple of weeks. The encounter I had with my new neighbor has been turned into a mutual acknowledge of each other’s presence, at least, I do notice him. I can hear him from time to time, just walking around his apartment or moving things, although I don’t think he has much furniture given the fact I didn’t see any hauling truck that indicated he was carrying something more than a bag, besides, we live in the ninth floor, it would be quite the job to get heavy stuff up there. His weird activities have synchronized with my less weird ones: when I leave for work, he’s arriving to his apartment. I don’t know what he does all day, but when I come back at night, he’s usually leaving or already gone. We don’t meet though, sometimes I hear him close his door before I leave or I see him at the entrance of our building just before he disappears among the crowd. We bumped into each other one night last week, I smiled at him and waved my hand. I think it was a bad idea given the reaction of the poor man the last time I tried to talk to him, but he actually nodded back at me, still nervous and out of place. 

A huge part of me tells me to stay away from him, like he’s screaming at me that he’s dangerous and I’m risking my life every second I dare to live next to him, however an almost non-existent one wants to bump into him again. Out of curiosity, of course. It’s past midday when the first client walks in and my round beings. Black coffee, cappuccino, mocha, nut-flavored coffee and a few chai teas are served through the day, contrary of what I thought when I arrived, the busy day starts to draw away my thoughts from that disturbed expression and piercing blue eyes.

I lift my head after I gather the cups from out last costumers. The sun is between two high stores, their windows are keeping it trapped, their crystals mirroring its light.

 _‘You can go after you’re done with the dishes’_ , Costin pops his head from above the bar.

_‘Are your sure? I can stay and help you with the…’_

_‘No, I’ll be fine’_ , he says before I finish. _‘Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow’_ , he smiles at me and I nod. I’m being sent home earlier the day I arrived later. I should be late more often.

On my way home, I see my favorite music store open and I don’t think twice and walk happily towards it. What I like the most about this store is that they have second-hand cassettes at the best price and excellent conditions. I buy a few, old Rock and Roll classics and grunge. I take out my Walkman from my small purse and put on some Nirvana for the rest of the way back to my building. The city comes to life around me, the melody paints the walls and people’s faces of a million colors. The notes are dancing in the air, they turn on the lights and dim the sky. The world has never been this bright and welcoming. When I start to walk into familiar streets, the music doesn’t reach them. The emptiness is back, the burn and despair. I take off my headphones and put them back in my purse because I don’t need them anymore. I’m back. The stairs seem impossibly endless this particular afternoon and I consider sleeping in some basement, but at the same time, I really want to sleep in my comfortable mattress. 

First, second, third. My hands are shaking. Fourth, fifth, sixth. My lungs are aching. Seventh, eighth. My eyes are closing. I’m climbing the last steps when I hear something hit the floor. I roll my eyes and then look down; my headphones. I go back downstairs to lift them, somehow they made it to the stair landing, but when I bend, my own weight pushes me down and I fall. Bless the gravity and my damned clumsiness. I hear something crack, then my ankle is burning. I know I let out a litany of curses, but the pain is so strong that I don’t care who’s listening. Last thing I notice before closing my eyes, is someone kneeled in front of me, reaching out to my ankle. I feel a pair of careful hands run through my calves, searching for injuries, which they found as they approach the main hurting point. I shot my eyes open and meet with blue irises.

He’s looking at me like a doctor looks at his patient; professionally, distantly, dehumanized enough to get the job done. I’m starting to sweat cold and the world’s spinning around me. From all the scenarios I might have pictured another meeting, this is one I could have never formulated. I jump a little when he caresses the surface of my ankle, his movements are skilled and knowing, like he has taken care of several injured bodies. For some reason, that fact doesn’t soothe me. He grimaces and examines my ankle closer, lifting it with such delicacy I’m sincerely amazed, then he looks up to me, his eyes full of struggle and some panic.

 _‘It’s probably dislocated. I need to put it back in place’_ , he says. I’m startled. Deep in my mind, I was expecting a harsh, savage voice, the kind of you don’t want to listen to ever again, but his is soft and melodious. Young and pure in a childish way. I nod, the only response I am capable. _‘It’s going to hurt’_ , he warns. I give him a reassuring nod, praying I will make it alive. He purses his lips together and after that, everything goes too fast; he twists my foot, I hear a crude clicking sound and my screams fill the staircase. _‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry’_ , he repeats over and over again. He removes his hands as if my body burns his skin, and he’s looking at me with pleading eyes.

 _‘No, no. Thank you. Thank you so much’_ , I repeat like a prayer, still dazed and maybe a little far too gone. My lungs are empty and the pain slowly decreases. We stay there for a few minutes, we are burning. There’s adrenaline between us, electricity in the space. His gaze is fixed on the wall in front of him, his elbows on his knees and his hands are hidden beneath them. I’m unceremoniously sprawled on the stairs, contemplating my fast approaching unconsciousness, but still I can see how tensed he is, the slight trembling of his shoulders.

 _‘Thank you so much’_ , I say again and he gives me a tiny nod in response.

 _‘Can you stand up?’_ , he asks with a shaky voice. I fight the urge to punch him. Didn’t I just dislocate my ankle? I sigh.

 _‘Yes’,_ I lie, and he seems to notice because he stands up and offers me his hand. I take it, but instead of carrying me all bridal style (not that I want him to do it, right?), he puts my right arm around his shoulders and places his left arm around my waist. Never too close, ever so intimately. We could have passed as old pals, and suddenly I want someone to take us a picture because this moment should be immortalized forever: his lovely awkwardness and my embarrassing drunken-like walking. I also realize how tall he really is because my head makes it hardly to his shoulder and my feet are barely touching the ground as we go upstairs and I'm aware that he's carrying most, if not all, of my weight to prevent me from hurting even more. We reach our doors and he removes his tight grip from my waist, lingering his hand on my elbow to ensure some kind of support while I take out my keys. I turn to him and smile at him, deeply thankful, _‘Thank you, again. Really’_.

 _‘Yes, you’re welcome’_ , he answers and I swear I can’t get enough of his voice. I open my door, he releases me and I hold on the door frame. _'Do you want me to help you to your bed?'_ , he asks, his face beyond uncomfortable, if that's possible.

 _'That's not necessary, I can...'_ I put my wounded foot on the ground, but it hurts so much that I moan in pain. He purses his lips and put his right arm under my knees and the other around my shoulder blades, lifting me without effort. I get the bridal style, after all. He steps inside, walking carefully because there are a few things on our way to the bed and I'm embarrassed for my I'm-single-and-I-live-alone mess. I'm flushing, probably as red as a tomato when he puts me down on the mattress.

 _'Thank you, for everything'_ , I say and he stands up, scanning my apartment, like he's looking for potential danger. _'Thank you'_ , I'm not tired of those words. He turns to look at me, his expression relaxing just a bit.

 _‘Good night’_. He doesn’t wait to hear my answer because he hurries outside the apartment.

 _‘Good night’_ , I said to the empty space he left behind. I hear his door being closed, but my body is aching so much that I'm not aware of anything else. I crumble on the mattress. And I think I’m fainting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! A day later, but sure here. Thank you so much for reading. I'll be updating next week :) Have a nice weekend. Let me know your thoughts :D


	4. Flightless Bird

_Calm down. Breathe slowly. In and out. Slow. Slowly. Slower._ I’m having a panic attack behind my door. The walls are too tight, the air is thicker than blood and I don’t feel the ground beneath my feet anymore. _She’s fine._ No. _You hurt her._ I had to. _You hurt her._ I did. _You left her._ I did. I left her there without making sure if she would be alright. Any other person would have offered more than that: medic assistance, to call someone, a damned glass of water, but no. I’m that terrified of people. I think everyone has a gun hidden inside their clothes, that they’re going to attack me any given moment. Kill me. But, why am I so afraid of dying? I deserve it. No. I deserve to be tortured, to be punished for all the lives I took, for the blood I shed and the horrors I unfolded. Death would be mercy. Forgiveness. None of those things I deserve.

Her apartment was almost as empty as mine and I wonder if she’s been living much longer here than me. She has nothing more than a mattress, a small table with two chairs, a second hand kitchen set and too many random things out of place; a television, some kind of radio and clothes pilled on a wood box. We have the same doors that lead to a laundry area outside and a window, but hers are not covered by newspaper like mine, she has long purple curtains. I noticed a few pictures too, not family pictures or something that could tell me who is she, just… things. Trees, different shades of sky and buildings. I don’t know any of them; they don’t look familiar. But I do know a few things about her, like she works somewhere near downtown. She goes out of the building not too early in the morning and comes back not too late at night. She is very quiet, except for the times she listens to music, and no one comes to visit her, ever. I’ve seen her from my balcony, she’s standing across the street waiting for a bus. Her expression is calm, her eyes lost in the street, her lips always a little ajar. She wears a white blouse, black pants and those muddy boots; she holds her hair in a ponytail. Her blue hair. I like it. I kind of like her presence too, but I’m avoiding her, I’m gone when she arrives and I arrive when she’s gone. I don’t want to be near her, talk to her, hurt her. The panic is replaced by urgency. I need to get out of here. I’ve been spending the nights out of my apartment in order to avoid nightmares, it has helped a lot and I get some sleep at day when I’m back. Right now, I need to do a sweep and make sure nothing’s changed, that the little safety I’ve built is still there. I recover quickly, an inherited demand by the remnants of the war flowing through my veins, and before I realize it, I’m back facing her door, my fist’s about to knock and my voice gets stuck in my throat. What’s stopping me? Why do I let it stop me? Why can’t I do more? _Fear. You’re afraid of them. They don’t want to leave you._ I grunt instead of slamming my metal arm against the door, I would probably scare the life out of her. I give up, like I was even trying, and head downstairs. It’s already dark outside, I didn’t notice it was this late, but when I’m standing under the threshold of the building and my eyes are adjusting to the artificial lights, the night greets me with her soft caress. I let my feet take me anywhere suitable to spend the night; any alley, any sidewalk or bench. They’re good enough. They should be. 

I’m fully acquainted with the whole area by now. I’ve been exploring more and more the past couple of weeks, taking the risk of going further away every time I do a sweep. I got a wooden base and a mattress that were in good state in a landfill. I also bought some clothes in a bazaar and bath accessories. My apartment is looking more habitable, but it doesn’t feel homelike. Home. The word drills my brain, it’s an intrusive concept that my life is unable to absorb, it ranges before my eyes, my hands barely touching it. A bench wins the bet and takes the role of my bed tonight, but I won’t sleep. I can’t. I shouldn’t. But, at the end, I do.

 _‘Are you ok, sir?’_ , a timeless voice wakes me up. Not long ago, I would have jumped, fully awake, and charge towards the threat. Lethal, net, efficient. But this one time, I don’t react like an animal and attack him. I open my eyes and sit; an old man is staring at me. My surroundings envelope me, bringing back to the present. I babble what sounds like a ‘yes’, still stunned by my own smooth reaction, and he walks away, clearly confused. 

I blink the hours orbiting my steps, I let them drag me through the pavement and the dirty aroma of the city. I’m avoiding the thought of her, her pained expression and wounded body, her smile and her warmth. I have to make sure she’s fine, I have to go back. But, why? Why do I need to know she’s not hurting anymore? She always smiles at me. She doesn’t mean to hurt me. _How do you know?_ I know. _How?_ I just do. I shake my head, driving away the questions I never seem to have the right answer to and start to walk back to my building. I made it pretty far last night, I didn’t notice how far until now, so it takes me awhile to be in front of the entry. As I’m heading upstairs, my mind grants me a nice silence on my way to my flat. Easy, fluid, quiet. When I’m facing her door again, all the voices come back. _She doesn’t need your help._ But I have to… _She’s a stranger._ She’s my neighbor. _No. You don’t know her._ I know, I just want to… _No. You’ll hurt her._ I won’t, I promise, just let me… _Just leave._ And I do, and the next week that’s all I do. I turn around, I leave, because she doesn’t need me and I don’t want to hurt her. There are a few times when my determination falters and I end up by her doorframe, but I never have the courage to knock. I don’t hear her silence through the walls anymore. Her stealth is not comforting anymore, I’m afraid she… No. It can’t be. The smell would… God. I’m thinking of the possible ways I’d found out if she’s dead. Dead. 

Everything is happening too fast. I'm practically tripping towards her door again, my need to know is stronger than my fear. I knock. There’s no answer. Silence. I don’t like it.

 _‘Miss?’_ , I speak just loud enough to be heard. Goddamnit, man up, Barnes! Speak louder. I clear my throat, _‘Are you there, miss?’_ , I’m pathetic. I don’t even know if she went to work, she couldn’t, she freacking dislocated her ankle and I’ve been gone longer than usual, making sure I disregard any information about her whereabouts or activities. God, I don’t even know her name. I’m getting angry with myself, so I leave, that’s better than tearing her door in half.

The shame of my poor attempts imprisons me inside my apartment. I don’t dare to walk out of here, the devil himself wouldn’t make me leave this place. The rest of the day is spent on what I call bed, all blue, like her hair, sheets and hard pillows. The walls rotate as I turn several times, nausea and discomfort growing inside my stomach. Even though I’m not sleepy, I’m impossibly tired. All the nights out, the misery of food that I could get, plus this irrational worry about my neighbor, have taken their toll on me. I grunt against my pillows and when I’m about to close my eyes, I hear a knock on a door. I think it’s my door. I lift my head to listen more clearly the sounds coming from outside. I’m processing all the possibilities that time goes by without me realizing it and when I’m aware of what’s happening, it’s to late. A door, it opens, then closes. She’s back. I stand up and run to the hallway in record time, but when I step out of my apartment, I trip with a small paper bag. I frown, looking everywhere, trying to find an owner, then, when I lift the bag and pay more attention, I see a _‘thank you, neighbor’_ hand-written on it. Am I that neighbor? Is this from her? What for? I open the bag to find a cup with something really hot inside, it smells like coffee, and a donut. There are a lot of sugar and cream packets, too. When everything makes sense, kind of, a tiny smile paints my face, I feel a wave of warmth run my entire body, it makes me shiver a little. I have to thank her, now. _She must be tired._ I need to thank her. _You’ll thank her tomorrow._ Tomorrow, then. _Coward._

I go back to my apartment, like an animal who’s been given food and now hides back in its cave. Coward, that’s what I am. A happy coward, though. The first bite of the donut really tastes like heaven; chocolate with chocolate chips. Good Lord, I owe her my happiness right now. The donut is slightly hot, fluffy and so sweet that my eyes roll in pleasure. It’s been so long… I’m excited about this unexpected dinner. I take the cup of coffee, but before I can do anything else, my brain decides to think too much. How do I like my coffee? Do I like coffee? Damn. I start to feel less relaxed, my body’s filling with anger, despair, unsteadiness. I need air, more than this room is able to provide. The balcony looks more appealing than ever, finally useful. Once outside, I lean on the thick bar and the cold, never comforting enough air hits my face and I inhale, deep, too deep. 

_‘Hello’_ , again, I surprise myself. I could have thrown a punch or shot a gun I don’t have, but the sweetness of the voice coming from a small distance halts a more aggressive reaction. That doesn’t stop me from turning quickly, alarmed, ready. Always ready. _‘I’m sorry’_ , she says and she smiles. Always smiles.

I blink a few times, my mouth half-open in disbelief, still unable to process what’s happening here. Knees against her chest, she’s sitting on the bar, the bar of the ninth floor. Is she suicidal or something? She could fall and die, she’s not safe, but I really don’t care because I’m looking at her, and it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time: her eased off face, her long and abundant eyelashes, her upturned nose, tiny hands and purple nails. The sunset baths her figure, making her glow with orange light. Her big, curious brown eyes are looking right through me, expecting. Her curvy lips, almost heart-shaped, form an amused twist in the corner of her mouth. Her face, a little round, almost childish, is covered by blue, wild, flames of hair. She’s burning.

 _‘Hello’_ , I miraculously manage to say. Her smile grows.

 _‘How are you?’_ , God, how am I? I prepare myself to have a normal conversation with my neighbor, the one I helped out after she broke her ankle, then abandoned in her apartment. The one I’ve been avoiding. The one who gave me a donut and coffee, a coffee I couldn’t drink because I’m a psychotic maniac who doesn’t know how the hell he takes his coffee. Here we go.

 _‘I’m fine, thank you. And you? How’s your ankle?’_ , good.

 _‘Better, I called my boss and he…’_ , she stops, struggling to find the correct word, _‘…he took me to his house and his family took care of me’_.

 _‘That’s… good’_ , I’m truly relieved that she didn’t die. _‘When did you come back?’_.

 _‘Today’_ , she says and we stay quiet. I’m stunned, proud of myself for communicating successfully with another human being. Never, for one second, I can tear my eyes off her. I'm studying her; the slight quirk of her eyebrow, how deep the brown of her eyes is and how light-pink her lips are. She's floating, shining, burning. The rest hides in the shadows behind her, the rest is kept a secret from my gaze. _‘Did you like your coffee?’_ , crap.

 _‘Yes, it was good’_ , I lie, of course.

 _‘I’m glad to hear that. I wasn’t sure if you…’_ , she struggles again. I knew Romanian wasn’t her mother tongue since the first time we met, but our conversations didn’t demand her a more extensive vocabulary. _‘I’m sorry, I don’t know how to… Romanian is not…_ God, this is awful’, she finally goes for English.

‘It’s okay. You speak Romanian very well’. I could have laughed at her expression, mouth fully open and huge, shocked eyes, but I still am some kind of gentleman, so I just shrug. And then, she starts to laugh. She laughs, ever so delicately. I can’t stop looking at her, her presence is so soothing that my whole body reacts to this peaceful energy emanating from her, not in an aggressive, defensive way, but rather appeased and organic.

‘I’m glad to know I have someone to talk to’, she says, sincerely in an American accent. ‘I didn’t know how do you drink your coffee, so I just left it up to you’.

‘I liked the donut’, it’s not a proper answer, but it’s honest.

‘Yeah, everyone likes chocolate, I think’. We stay quiet again and I don’t know if I want to keep going or let it die naturally, so I focus on her clothes. She's wearing dark-blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Barefoot. The picture of her when we first met makes me suppress a chuckle; all damp blue hair, wet lips and shaky hands. There's no makeup on her face now. She's natural. She's wild.

‘How many languages do you speak?’, my brain refuses to stop itself and I find myself listening to my own voice asking.

‘Seven: English, Spanish, German, French, Romanian, Italian and Russian’, she says selflessly at the impressive number, but I flinch at the mention of the last one. I hope she doesn’t notice. ‘And you?’

‘Many’, my reply is maybe a little sharp and her face falls in disappointment, just a little change and if I were not so well trained, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. But I do, and so does she, because she composes her posture and tries to save our small chat.

‘Where are you from?’

‘USA’, that’s the best answer she will get from me because I don’t want to talk anymore. The topics are making me anxious because I can’t let her know… anything. Anything about me. She can’t know, she shouldn’t. ‘Good night’, I say and head to my apartment, but before I disappear from her view, she whispers.

‘I’m Robin’, I stop ice-cold right there. I don't think about anything else, just those words coming out from her mouth. Her name. _Robin._

‘Like the bird’, I absent-minded say.

‘Yes, like the bird’, she smiles and untangles her legs, getting down from the bar. ‘Good night’, and she walks inside her own apartment.

I move slowly and close the door behind me. I can’t believe what I just did: I did something ordinary, I talked to someone. I helped someone and she’s fine. She’s fine and she smiled at me. Something human. I smile, I’m in the mood for a shower, besides, my hair already sticks to the skin of my face. Did I dare to talk to her looking this shitty? Shameless. Human. When the steam blurs my vison and the water’s ready, welcoming, the last thought that crosses my mind before losing myself in this luxury pleasure is the memory of blue fire and a flightless bird. _Robin_. Sad eyes and moonlight skin. _Robin._ Blue hair and purple nails. _Robin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thank you so much for reading! This story is coming to life thanks to you and I hope you're liking it. Here's the fourth chapter, a little (not really) longer than the others, so please enjoy it :D Have a good night and week! :)


	5. Gasoline

Breakfast never tasted better. After spending a week eating _ciorbă de cartofi_ morning, day and night, my body and soul are thankful for this beautiful plate of scrambled eggs. Mrs. Tanase is a great cooker, but her culinary skills aren’t beyond potato soup. It was delicious, an ode to the traditional Romanian food, but even this delicacy could be turned into the most powerful weapon against humanity’s collective stomach. For now, at least against mine.

The day after my ‘accident’, I called my boss and told him what happened. It was shocking when he arrived with Costin at my apartment and took me with them. Mr. Tanase knew where I lived, but I thought he would be reluctant to even get close by coincidence. The location of his house, and the café, is very nice: even though he lives in the metropolitan area, there isn’t too much noise, a few trees refresh the air around and the space is well distributed between the local and the living place. As soon as I arrived after paying a visit to the doctor (because _‘you need medicine and proper attention to your health’_ ), his wife practically adopted me like the daughter, I guess, she never had. She’s incredibly generous and kind, all motherly manners and sweet tones. Yes, I dislocated my ankle, but it seemed like I had the most dangerous illness of all times. She would bring my meals to the sofa that they assigned me as bed, she would come running to my side at the very sound of my breathing changing and stay with me the whole night in case I needed to stand up. Yes, she can't cook anything else than one dish, but damn me if I'm not deeply thankful with her and her family. For the first time in years, I let myself feel embraced and protected, I trusted them enough to let them take care of me. They weren’t the perfect family, I didn’t expect them to, but they have this spontaneous behavior when they’re together that during the time I was in their house, I couldn’t bring myself to look away. The way they moved around each other, their expressions and conversations were natural. The picture of a little black-haired girl appears in my mind, she’s playing with her dolls, two figures guarding her and she’s happy. Suddenly, the picture is broken, they’re gone and she’s afraid. A song echoes in the air, it hits me right in the chest. I shake my head and look at my already cold eggs. The perfect breakfast has been ruined by my timely brain overthinking again. 

I lose the appetite, there’s no joy anymore. I decide to take a shower because my skin feels sticky after practically drowning in sweat last night. The moment I made it safe and sound to the inside of my apartment, my body thought it funny to drain my nervousness through every pore. My neighbor (whose name I still don’t know and it seems I will never do because he chickens out every time we ‘talk’) turned out to be a not-so-much-of-a-weirdo kind of neighbor and he actually asked me about my ankle. He was comfortable enough to carry on a conversation, yet he had the same disoriented look in his eyes and disturbed mien. He looked terribly exhausted, his stubble getting closer to a full beard, huge eye bags and pale skin. Although he was wearing a black beanie, his hair was greasy, the rest of his clothes neglected and his hands gloved in spite of the unusual tepid weather. Maybe he’s just a chilly man. I undress and step in the shower.

‘ _Girl… you’ll be a woman… soon_ ’, I start to sing under the stream of water. ‘ _I love you so much, can't count all the ways I've died for you, girl, and all they can say is… he's not your kind_ ’, the words take me away to a distant scenario where I’m locked in a room with too many drifting hours and a part of my life when ‘Misirlou’ was my prodigal ringtone. My hair was different, too. ‘ _They never get tired of putting me down and I’ll never know when I come around what I’m gonna find_ ’, the shampoo floods my head with multicolor bubbles and an apple fragrance invades the steam. Soap, water and bubbles are my whole world now. Blue eyes, fine lips and clenched jaw leak through my fingers. ‘ _Don’t let them make up your mind, don’t you know, girl?_ ’, I let my voice die and the water wash away the picture of this stranger I know. But he's looking at me with those feline-shaped eyes, piercing my body, making me fall off the balcony a million times.

The shower comes to an end when there’s no hot water left. I hum while I dry myself, enjoying the clean sensation of my skin and the fresh breeze coming from the open window. When I’m done, dressed up and ready to procrastinate because Mr. Tanase told me I could take another week off to fully recover, the heat of the midday invites me to spend my time indoors. If I can ward off hot days, I will, so I do. Stevie Wonder is the chosen one to make me company. I lay carefully on the mattress, bringing closer the boombox. The doctor said my injury isn’t serious, I removed the bandage two days ago because there was no point in using it anymore. The immediate assistance I got from my neighbor was in fact very helpful, but I have to be more careful with certain movements and avoid stairs as much as I can. Bless him. I live in the ninth floor of a building. That’s why Mr. Tanase told me to take it easy, that he and Costin could handle the café for another week. Bless them. 

‘ _My cherry amour, lovely as a summer day_ ’. The melody and the voice soothe my heart and mind. I drift, I sleep and I dream of spring flowers painting green and shiny grass. My eyelids feel the warm of the sunrays and my nose takes in all the sweetened oxygen. I don’t know where I am, but then again, I do. Back in this place, back here where I can’t go back, I caress the petals with my fingertips while I walk in circles, not wanting to end this pleasure. The air sings against my ears, and when I open my eyes, I’m facing the oldest memories of all. Home. A promise. A reprise. My heart constricts at the view. I must not be here, I have no right to own this precious place, so I run. I need to escape before I start to miss it. Fat tears blur my way to the darkness I can’t make feel like home, but the space around me refuses to vanish no matter how fast I’m running and how hard I’m breathing.

I wake up immersed in the rush, the adrenaline, the fear. It wasn’t a total unpleasant dream, it brought nostalgia and sadness to my heart, but it can’t be broken again. Not that broken. Stevie has stopped singing, the tape finished running a while ago and silence is all that can be heard. Breaking the tense atmosphere, my loyal stomach growls, demanding unwanted shared attention. I stand up at a maddening pace and walk towards the fridge, then I remember the spoiled food I found when I came back, now in the trash, and I curse. The only salvable things were a couple of eggs, which I already cooked. There’s no other option than going out and buy takeaway. I put on some pants, a loose-shirt and sandals. According to the doctor, my ankle should be kept firmly held by something, but I can’t stand anything more than socks. I ignore the reason. The mere sight of the way downstairs makes me whine and I consider food-deprivation, dismissing the idea almost immediately. God knows I’m not that strong, or stupid, for that matter. 

It takes me more than 20 minutes to make it to the ground floor and I almost cry of joy. My foot hurts a little, but I ignore it because the pain of my stomach is far more notorious. I walk in the diner that’s around the corner, a cozy, small place with the best sandwiches I’ve ever tasted. I really don’t want to eat here, my apartment can be one of the worst places in the world, but I’m so used to it, that being away this whole week made me appreciate its monotonous reliability. Ham and cheese will do; cheap, fast and delicious, but it’s going to be a while before I come back here, so I ask five more sandwiches. No words can describe how happy I feel when I walk out of the diner, and how miserable things become when I’m facing the staircase again. I fight back a desperate shout and look around to find a place where I can sit and eat peacefully. There’s a bench near the threshold that looks suitable, unobtrusive and kind of comfy, so I walk towards it and sit, opening the to-go food box. The first bite melts my insides, I moan of pleasure and close my eyes. My starving-demoniac-belly is at peace too.

‘Hi’, a voice makes me open my eyes and I choke when I realize who is it, nearly spitting my food out. ‘Are you ok?’, he asks. I’m trying to recover, but I’m shocked, not because he’s here (he kind of lives here, and he’s kind of my neighbor), but because he’s talking to me on his own, without me initiating the conversation. Zeus, help me.

‘Hey’, I say, my voice sounds dry. I cough a few more times before I can speak properly. ‘Yeah, I’m fine’. I look up at him and immediately notice a few things, minor changes on his appearance; he’s clean shaved, his jaw is sharp and strong, his clothes are different, a pair of black jeans and a long-sleeved navy shirt, and they don’t look dirty. He’s wearing the same beanie of last night, his hair no longer greasy, and those out-of-context gloves on. But there’s something else, a bigger change, yet not an evident one, that makes me examine him more carefully. It’s him. Himself is different. He’s no longer the freed animal I met at my apartment’s door, his body is not that uptight, not that frightened, not that ready. His shoulders are hanging in a relaxed way on each side of his not self-aware imposing figure, his hands aren’t’ those iron fists anymore and his legs are parted, leaving a casual space between them. And his eyes, frozen-sky blue, are looking at me, expecting, asking, fearing. I can’t get used to the fact that he doesn’t look away from me whenever we meet, but this time, it doesn’t bother me. I’m growing fond of it.

‘H–How's your ankle?’, he asks, doubtful, sensing the field. Although he shutters a little when he speaks, his voice is always velvety.

‘Great’, I’m probably making that I’m-actually-dying-but-it’s-okay-just-go face because he frowns, he doesn’t buy my poor answer, but he doesn’t approach. He’s standing a couple of steps away, respecting our personal space. He opens and closes his mouth as if he wants to argue, but thinks more of what he’s going to say next.

‘How did you get down here?’, his honest and adorable confusion goes right to my heart, it makes me half-smile.

‘I limped, actually’, I point out, even lifting my index finger. He doesn’t think it funny.

‘But you’re injured’, I can almost chuckle at his scolding tone, but I keep quiet. I don’t know what to say to that. Well, maybe I do.

‘Do you want to sit?’, I palm the small place next to me, inviting him. That takes him aback, he gets nervous, almost panicking like before, and I can see how much he struggles to compose himself. Finally, he gulps and nods, that signal tiny nod of his, stepping closer. It’s like he’s so much smaller than me now, all of his previous strength has vanished and he’s just a petty figure by my side. His head is shyly bowed, arms shielding his body, fists resting on his knees. Uptight, frightened, ready. ‘Are you hungry? Do you want a sandwich?’, I offer, handing him the box, and Lord have mercy of his soul, he gets impossibly stiffer. ‘It’s okay’, I encourage him, ‘they’re ham and cheese, if you like that’. His eyes change again, they’re exposed, looking at me with nervousness printed on them. 

‘Thank you’, he whispers, his hand is shaking when he grabs the box, taking out a sandwich. He studies it, uncertain of what to expect.

‘They are really good, I swear’, I give him my most reassuring smile. He slowly takes the first bite. I see him chewing, tasting, enjoying, and I’m honestly fascinated. ‘How is it?’, I should stop myself from bombarding with questions or he will run away, like that first time we met.

‘Good, I like it’, and I would bet my cassettes collection that he smiled. Just a slight, almost invisible, more pronounced curve in corner of his mouth. It has a natural twist at each side, simulating he’s always smiling, but you have to pay attention if you want to notice. And I’m paying enough attention to notice. ‘What about you? Aren’t you hungry?’, he asks when he’s finished, and I look at the forgotten sandwich I left beside me. 

‘Yeah, I mean, not anymore’, I should slap myself. ‘I’m fine’. We stay there, settling in a not-so-comfortable silence. This evening will be remembered as the one my neighbor talked to me, shared a sandwich with me, and somehow, it nearly made him smile.

‘Why is your hair blue?’, he asks out of nowhere, like he’s been holding back himself from asking about my hair, his voice is filled with honest curiosity. ‘It isn’t real, is it?’, he’s kidding, right?

‘No, I dye it’, he nods, but his face contracts again, realizing he’s not understanding everything, so I keep going before he asks again, ‘It’s not complicated, well, just the first time. You have to bleach your hair and then dye it. It’s a handful because you have to be very careful not to damage your hair too much, but after that you just retouch with the same color’. My explanation is not one bit helpful. He grimaces (he does) and his eyebrows frowned give away his confusion.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No, some itching while you’re bleaching it, but no. Not at all’, I assure him and he seems pleased with that answer. ‘I should go’, I say and stand up, grabbing my stuff and swinging a bit, but steading myself out of pride, ‘It was nice to talk with you’, I smile sincerely, ‘Have a nice evening’. I turn, walking towards the stairs.

‘Wait’, my heart stops beating when I hear him call after me. ‘Do you want me to help you?’. I’m trying to speak, I know I do, but words are tangled around my tongue, refusing to formulate a coherent sentence. When I turn back to him, there’s that out-of-place mien again.

‘It’s not necessary, really. I can crawl’, insert slap, ‘I mean, walk. I’ll be fine’.

‘Can I walk with you?’, oh, God. He _pleads_ and looks at me in a way that makes me want to give up my body and soul, anything to give him peace. 

‘Yes, of course.’ Yes, I’d definitely give up everything I am to see that relieved face again.

We walk quietly upstairs. He walks with me, side by side, step by step, in an easy rhythm. He doesn’t show exasperation about my pace, which is unbearably slow. When I stop to take a break, he waits for me to catch my breath, then we keep going like this is something we do on daily basis. Ordinary. Human. By the time we reach the fifth floor, my breathing has turned into a painful gasping, and he notices. I support my weight on the red banister, feeling dizzy and shaken. My chest rises and falls, trying to take in as much air as it can.

‘Here’, he steps down, backwards to me, then turning his head to indicate me to climb on his back. Climb.

‘Oh, no! Please, that won’t be–’ 

‘It’s okay’, he assures. Did he just used that encouraging tone I did back with the sandwich? Oh, boy. ‘Unless you don’t feel comfortable about it’, I should be sent a million times right to hell for bringing such terrified look in his face. 

‘No, I’m fine. I mean, yes. Thank you’, and I move carefully, slowly, towards him. I put my hands over his shoulders, they’re stoned hard, and I can barely hold the food box in front of his broad, powerful chest. Afterward, with even more care, I bring up my leg, then the other, and he hooks his forearms almost under my calves because my legs are too short for him to get right under my knees. I thank God, Zeus, Ilúvatar, and any other deity I can think of, for letting me be behind him so he can’t see how red-hot my face should be. When he turns, I cling to him tighter, afraid of falling downstairs, and he senses how stiff I am because he holds me tighter as well. I don’t know what impresses me more, the fact that I, Robin Dawson, 5’4-feet-blue handful of asthma and anxiety is being carried, again, by her nameless neighbor, or that he’s walking faster with me clinging like a baby koala to his back, not to mention effortlessly. I want to see the end of this, which comes rather quicker than I expected. He puts me down once we reach our flat, making sure I’m safe and sound on the ground before turning to me.

‘I’m deeply grateful with you’, I say, ‘not just because of this, but back to that day when I dislocated my ankle’.

‘Yeah, thank you for the sandwich, too’, his answer comes out like he didn’t think mean it to. He starts to walk towards his door. ‘H–have a good evening and get better’, he takes his leave, but I can’t let him go before I know.

‘What’s your name? You haven’t told me your name’, I declare. He freezes, and his eyes get lost, they shine with emptiness. His breathing stops for a moment, then he’s gasping and panicking. It doesn’t hurt the slight resemblance he has with me, but it’s tearing me apart seeing him like this again: lost, terrified, vulnerable. There’s something about him, I could feel it, I knew it since the first time I saw him. Something broken. He’s broken. He’s in so much pain even when he looks calm and quiet, even when he almost smiles. He’s suffering, and I can’t stand it. ‘Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if–’

‘No! I–I can. I…’, He’s crumbling, right there, right before my eyes. ‘My name–my name is–my name is Bucky’. The way he says it, mechanical, doesn’t sound like he believes it. He’s not telling me his name; he’s trying to convince himself it is his name. ‘My name is Bucky’, this time he’s more sure about it, but he still doesn’t trust those words.

‘It’s been nice to meet you, Bucky’, my voice is caressing his distress, trying to soothe him. He looks at me like he always does, like he’s apologizing. He knows what happened, he knows I saw it, that I know now. And he’s trusting me, from the very moment he turned on his back to me, out of his radar, out of his immediate control, he was trusting me.

‘Have a good evening, Robin’, he says again, calling me by my name. A chill runs up my spine and I manage just a whisper as an answer, then we go our separate ways. Once inside my apartment, I put the food box on the small table and then throw myself on the mattress. I don’t want to think, I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to feel. I put on my headphones, Jefferson Airplane playing when I luckily push the right button without seeing. _‘One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small’_ , I start to sing. I want to be small, too. I fall into slumber before I can do anything about it. There are no dreams, no images, no memories. 

I shut my eyes open at the sound of someone’s deafened screams. I look around, recognizing my surroundings, and a loud whimper brings me back to reality. _Bucky_. Another loud cry cuts through my skull. I don’t think twice and stand up, not minding the sharp pain of my ankle and running towards the door. I open it, throwing myself against his, but before I knock, before I call for him, I stop. Faces, night’s similar screams and familiar voices flash before me. I know this, I remember this. Impotence fills my insides as I listen to Bucky’s desperate cries, they smash my bones, piercing my ears, shooting my heart. I fall on the floor and rest my hand against the cold surface of his door. I can’t do anything, I can’t go inside and bring him back, help him just like I couldn’t do it that one time such a long time ago. I cry. It hurts the same. It kills the same.

 _‘Ne boysya, malyshka’_ , I repeat those words to him just like I do to myself at night. _‘Seychas ya zdes’_ , the same tape, the same recording, the same voice. Then, I sing. _‘Bayu-bayushki-bayu nye lozhisya na krayu. Pridyot serenkiy volchok I ukhvatit za bochok’_ , the song breaks through the wood, but he can’t wake up; I can’t wake him up. _'On ukhvatit za bochok I potashchit vo lesok, pod rakitovyi kustok’_ , he’s crying. _‘Vernis’_ , he’s begging. _‘Vernis’ ko mne…’_ , he’s dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Well, this is definitely a longer chapter than the other ones, I hope you don't get bored. If there are mistakes on the Russian part, please let me know. [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8f8WYvAo-RA) is Robin's lullaby :D I'll update next week, maybe on Wednesday or Thursday, then I might not update so fast because I have finals :( Have a nice weekend :D


	6. Numb

It’s raining. I know. I see it. I smell it, but I can’t hear the water hit the ground. I can’t feel anything, yet I’m aware of too many things at a time. Too many noises, too much silence. All alone in time and space, vulnerable under a manufactured armor, I’m lost. Never to be looked for, never to be found. The clock’s ticking inside my head sets the pace of my breathing. Slow and burning. I’m burning alive, but it’s still raining.

I’m standing in the middle of a deserted compound, someplace I’ve never been before. I’m holding an AK-9, ready to shoot, efficient, mercilessly. My eyes are shielded by reinforced googles, scanning the area, looking for any potential threat, and my nose and mouth are covered by the heavy mask that protects my identity. The machine, the ghost, the killer. Every step that I take draws a path ahead of me, lifting up walls around me and painting the sky with poor gray brushstrokes. The picture materializing in front of me brings a longing sting with it as I recognize it; Brooklyn. I’m caged in a labyrinth of murky alleys full of rusted windows and the familiar sound of the city can be heard in the background. When I look at myself, my body is sketching a shadow that removes itself from me, leaving me as a second skin. The gun has disappeared, the metal and cold have vanished. My lungs are invaded by the humid air, and both of my hands are warm and soft. There’s a deep sense of freedom, joy and life growing in my stomach. Someone is beside me, his eyes are clear, watery blue, light face and stylishly combed hair. Seventeen years old, all innocence and fun. Young, charming Bucky Barnes smiles at the lovely ladies inside the diner while he’s making his way towards them, but bumps into a memorable, yet painful poster that becomes a million of white stars, blue eyes and red ribbons upholstering the walls. The sky is a mixture of daybreak shades that dresses his body with olive drab clothes and outbreaks his ears with swing music. Innovation is coming out of the future’s furnace, its lights enchant the crowd and coax them to stay. Right there, first row, the brave Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th is ready to take his ship to the very future. He’s looking for someone. _Who?_ He can’t see him. _What’s his name?_ He can’t find him. _Tell me his name._

I jump out of the picture, removing myself from the skin I once wore. The frame cracks between my fingers, flesh and metal shattering memories and faces. Cold. Freezing. My heart is beating so fast that is sets my veins on fire. Winter. Snow. Endless waves of rage break against my chest, they leave me restless, my body’s feeding on the primal instinct of self-preservation. Metal plates imprison my left arm, the same googles and mask hide away my face, heavy garments clothe the skin that’s left and within seconds, I’m fully weaponized. The Asset. The fist. The Winter Soldier. I walk cautiously among white trees, the snow on the ground reaches up to my knees and although it’s restraining me from moving freely, I don’t rush anything. They all will meet the same fate. I count nine bodies, nine targets; one mission. _Kill them all._ I encroach the area, cornering their scared, benign eyes in a dirty-greenish room; they’re waiting. They’re ready. 

I put down a gun I didn’t know I was holding, then take off the googles and mask. _They can’t see your face._ They won’t. _Just kill them._ I will. _Do it, now._ An empty thrill benumbs my hands; fingertips frozen, mind ablaze. I don’t want to do this, I flinch when a shiver meanders up my back and my feet stuck to the ground, petrifying my body. _Do it._ I don’t want to. _But you have to._ I want to stop. _You can’t._ I have to stop. _Do it, for me._ For you. This voice commands my very existence, I know who is it, its purring feels like a homecoming after a retirement period. My body brings itself to life again and it keeps walking. As I step closer, their faces come into sight, but I don’t recognize any of them. They’re strangers, just scared paces imprinted in my mind, they're targets. My mission. The adrenaline, the pleasure of owning someone’s life pleases me like anything else. Power. I have control over them. One by one, they all meet their final destination. Death. Heaven. Hell. Whatever they deserve. I watch their lungs squeeze their last breath, the warm of their cheeks disappear under their pale skin and their souls leaving their eyes. So clean. Mission completed. I will go back and report. I’m done. I’m tired. But it’s not enough. _It’s not enough._ Don’t make me do it. _I need you to._ No, please. _Do it._ Why isn’t this enough? I took their lives, I killed them all. _It’s not enough._ What else can I do? What do you want me to do? Why can’t you let me stop? Its enough. _You will stop until I say it’s enough._

A stronger, overwhelming billow makes something click in my brain. I’m no longer the ghost, nor the charming young man or the brave soldier. I’m not even the killing machine they’ve created. Finally, I have become the monster. I blank out. I’m walking towards the pile of dead bodies in the corner of the room. This needs to be done. _Why?_ I can’t stop until it’s enough. I take their bodies into my hands, their limpness leaking through my fingers, cold skin against metal, how fitting. A feral shout empties my lungs while I rip the flesh, crash the bone, bath in blood. _Tear them._ Limb by limb, I reduce them to shreds. _Tear them apart._ I have to tear them all apart. I rejoice in the sound of their skin breaking, their quiet screams begging me to stop and the shattering pleasure of their bodies being butchered. I can’t stop, and I don’t want to. I’m too drunk with this new, satisfying freedom, too in love with the beauty of this bloody picture and the relief it gives me. It’s enough. When everything is finished, when I’m finished, I look around; the room is flooded with blood, the darkness turns into white snow and I’m surrounded by tall, imprisoning trees. The bodies are still there. My stomach clenches at me mere sight of them, irrecognizable, discarded pieces of meat. I did this. I killed them all. _It wasn’t enough._ I tore them all apart. _It was enough._ I will never stop, it will never be enough. I’m not enough. _Bucky._ Falling, I remember falling. _Sergeant Barnes._ White coats and pale faces. _The Asset._ The Winter Soldier. I’m running away from them; who I was and what I’ve been. What I’ve done and the skins I’ve worn. _Bucky._ I’m too aware, too numb, too tired. _Do not worry, little one._ I’m falling. _I’m here now._ I can’t feel anything; I can’t feel you. A soft melody caresses my soul, a warm voice echoes in my head. Soothing. _Come back._ Let me go. _Come back to me._ Sunset smiles and broken wings. _Robin._ Sad eyes and moonlight skin. Robin’s voice wakes me up.

I sit up on the mattress, gasping, clinging to the air with all my strength. Robin is singing, I can hear her voice, I know it's hers. Tinkerbell mixed with summer breeze. The same song I hear her singing to herself when I leave too late at night, the one that lulls her to sleep. The strong Russian doesn’t sound so dreadful and poisonous when it comes out of her mouth. It’s sweeter. It's hers. She wanted me back. She brought me back. I hear a crack inside of me before I take another breath. The pain in my chest is too heavy for me to bear. ‘God…’, I sob against the pillow. There’s just too much pain, too many things I have no right to regret, pushing me back into the horrors of the winter I endured. ‘I killed them’, I whisper, ‘I killed them all. I killed them all…’. I’m numb. I became the monster they fear, the demon they never speak of. There was no man left, just blinding rage and never-ending bloodlust. When I close my eyes, unable to sleep again, Robin is still signing, she's keeping me here. Keeping me awake. Keeping me alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooooo! :D Well, this is a short one and I wanted to post it today because this weekend will be impossible for me to update. Finals have arrived. Still, I hope you like it :D We'll see a little of Bucky/Robin relationship development next chapter. It's going to be nice, I promise :D
> 
> PS: Sorry for making our precious baby too good to this world suffer in this chapter :(


	7. Undisclosed Desires

Morning light hits my face like a truck without breaks. I fell asleep right in front of Bucky’s door and I’m surprised that no one has come around asking why I’m stalking my poor neighbor. I would have blamed alcohol, for that matter. Alcohol would have explained the pain of my neck and back, and the migraine. I can’t even feel my ankle. Living on the ninth floor has it perks, though; there aren’t too many tenants that are willing to walk all the way up to their flats, except us. Bless them. Damn us. I breathe very deep a few times before trying to stand up, supporting most of my height on the door, and succeeding after four good attempts that cost me at least two upcoming bruises. I can hear my bones cracking.

He stopped crying a few hours ago, probably by three, and I can’t hear anything more than the city outside our building. He’s asleep in his apartment for the first time since I met him. I make my way towards mine, cursing every step I take because it hurts like hell. If I had any chance of recovering faster, that was ten hours ago. Bucky screaming and crying stop my whining, the sound of his suffering reduces mine for one second and I shake my head, not even feeling strong enough to listen to the memory of it. I suppress the urge to knock at his door and ask him if he’s better, if he needs something, anything, but I know what he needs is space and time. Alone. I grimace at the growing hassle of my leg, turning to my door again and trying to focus on not hurting myself even more. Once inside, I lay carefully on the mattress and close my eyes, too tired to sleep again. I reach for my Walkman, Depeche Mode playing against my ears when I put my headphones on and, God, were they always so knowingly. ‘Leave in silence’ lyrics are not exactly what I need to hear right now, so I push the ‘next’ button, regretting it the moment I hear ‘My Secret Garden’ starting to play. I try not to imagine Bucky curled up in his bed, afraid and in pain, fighting the demons of his nightmares. His beautiful blue eyes filled with terror, his childish features, pure and innocent, distorted by pain. His delicate lips spotted by blood drops from biting down too hard. And a picture that hurts even more clouds my mind: Bucky smiling. Bucky laughing. Slow-motion happiness. His face softens, the corner of his lips and eyes curl just a little, playful and mocking, then the light coming out of his eyes is like a million warm and youthful sunrays, his teeth are white and perfectly aligned, his head thrown back and the blue of his eyes is gone, hidden behind tightly closed eyes. 

It hurts just to imagine this sham hope. To see him smile, to see him laugh. Careless, happy, free. I sigh and sink my face on the pillow, ‘See you’ throwing the remains of my logical thinking out of the window. I should stay away from him, stop nosing on his business and leave the poor man alone. If he needed help, he would have asked me already, but he hasn’t, I’m the one who’s been harassing him with dislocated ankles, embarrassing piggybacks and sandwiches, not to mention falling asleep outside his door because he had a nightmare and I sang him to sleep. I _sang_ to him. If we ever come out of our apartments, God forbid we bump into each other, otherwise I’m sure there will be two potential reactions: me running the life out of there, him running like that terrible first meeting, or me bursting into a hysterical laugh out of shame, and him packing his three spoons and moving to Transylvania. The last one is probably the most believable. When I’m back from my think-of-six-impossible-things-before-more-procrastination scenario, ‘A Photograph of You’ takes control over my mind and guides me towards a heaven that only knows almost nice dreams among lilac clouds and pink skies.

The next two hours are dedicated to feed my soul with Elvis’ greatest hits, then the next seven I beautifully doze like Baloo-river-sleeping. By the end of the week, I’m fully recovered. I spent most of my time in bed, reading those classic fairytales volumes I got from a 50% off garage sale, watching from ‘Grease’ to ‘Rocky’ and some of my old favorite movies, eating sandwiches, then crawling down to get more food and listening to all my music over and over again. I was very careful to avoid disturbing my apparently gone neighbor. _Bucky_. I remind myself. His presence, or absence, was a big question mark printed on my forehead because the only sign he’s given me to guess what his life status is, is the sound of his door opening and closing at the same rhythm of our now forgotten routine. The confinement to my apartment hasn’t allowed me to even get close to his door, to his peace of mind. I’ve been thinking about what happened that night and I came to the conclusion that it was just a selfless gesture of kindness (wash your inner mouth with soap, girl) that it’s never going to repeat. I hope it doesn’t, for the sake of my creepy mother-hen instincts. This inexplicable worry I feel for him, this wish to help him, help him to… feel less threaten by whatever he’s ready to fight against was born the very moment I spot him under the threshold of his door, his impenetrable defense and hyper-aware senses greeting me one rainy day. I can’t explain my reasons for I don’t understand them myself. The only thing I’m sure about is that it makes me feel _good_ every time I seem to do something that takes some of the invisible height off his shoulders. No one deserves to be that hopeless, that lost, he doesn’t deserve it. 

Sunday midday. Cold breeze and cloudy sky. I’ll be back to work tomorrow and I’ve never felt so grateful. My ankle is better; it hurts only when I move in a certain way or when I put more height on it. The medicine helped me to endure uncomfortable night positions and now I’m able to walk up and down the stairs without too much effort. Bucky hasn’t been around, I hear him enter his apartment at some point, sometimes it’s morning, some other times it’s evening, just to make his way out again barely minutes later. He’s made it very clear he doesn’t want to be here. I’ve been avoiding the thought of that night, if we’re to be honest. I’ve been of about to knock at his door and apologize and promise him I will stay away. I’m sure he listened to me that night, and even thought I helped him, I encroached his intimacy, I crossed a line he drew since the beginning; and I’m deeply ashamed for it. I’ve been standing in front of the bathroom’s mirror while all these thoughts decided it was good to be noticed, so when I push them away, I focus on the hair dye on my right hand and the comb on the left one. I cut my hair a couple of inches, attempting an insulting version of Elizabeth Taylor 50’s hairstyle. My roots are visible and the blue has gotten opaque. Oh, boy. 

The Bangles play from the bedroom, making me company and lighting up the ritual. It takes me less than twenty minutes to finish, my hair covered in thick blue liquid and ‘Walk like an Egyptian’ sets the countdown to my shower. This particular song shakes my whole body, it makes me want to jump like a five-year-old girl and sing to the top of my lungs, so I do. At least the singing part, the delicate condition of my ankle prevents me from doing something more than moving my head from side to side, eyes closed and lips moving in sync with Susanna Hoffs’; my hands simulate to be playing a guitar and I’m whistling along with the chorus melody. I’m living one of those moments when you’re alone inside your room, doing exactly what they told you was wrong and inappropriate, everything you have to hide and disguise, and you laugh at what’s outside the door, like some fictional world you don’t belong to. My lungs run out of oxygen before the song is finished. Damned dysfunctional respiratory system. I sit on the chair beside me, too tired now to even lift my head, which is practically hanging from the backrest. The rest of the cassette is not appealing anymore, my little world has lost its colors and the unwelcoming darkness covers my mind. Forty minutes later, the blue is brighter and the skin is fresher, all clean and new. I change clothes to match the tidy looks of my body and apartment, then I go out to breathe some city air. I consider bringing my Polaroid, but Bucharest has one of those fluorescent blue-orange-lilac-pink sunsets it’s worth not taking a picture of. It’s just too natural. 

Standing behind the bar, I look at the shady canvas in front of me. It’s too early to be late, the sun has been swallowed by the clouds, leaving the sky torn between day and night, that point amid powder blue and midnight, that place where you’re still remember dreaming, where you’re sleep while you’re awake. Soothing. Pure. The city changes its face. Secret whispers in the air, colorless buildings and presences too absent to be felt. Iced-blue eyes unwilling to tear themselves from me, a velvety voice seducing me to go and a pair of trembling lips begging me to stay.

‘Hi’, I didn’t register any figure on the other balcony when I stepped outside, but there he is, Bucky, scaring the life out of me with the mere sound of his voice. I let out a squeal (a _squeal_ ) that makes him jump, and both of us are facing each other in a set of rushed movements; me trying to put my soul back inside my body and him leaning his torso a little forward on his singular strike position.

‘Holy shhh… Christ!’, I’m sure my chest will spit my heart out any given moment.

‘I’m sorry, I– I didn’t mean to–’, he raises his hands in front of him, apologizing.

‘I’m fine. I’m okay, don’t worry’, I close my eyes while my breathing stabilizes. I hear him sigh deeply, a loud shaky breath. Once I’ve composed myself, I open my eyes to find him with his head hung in shame, both of his arms stick to his sides. ‘Are you okay?’, I ask him carefully, not wanting to disturb him even more.

‘Yeah, I’m– I’m fine’, he refuses to look at me, and that somehow bothers me. ‘How are you? I mean, how’s your ankle?’, God bless him, still worried about my dislocated and useless limb.

‘Much better, thank you’, I smile at his avoiding eyes. He wants to run away; I can hear his thoughts. He still doesn’t lift his head when he speaks again.

‘Good. I… I just wanted to know– to ask if you are okay, and you are’, this poor guy. ‘Have a good night’, he starts to head back inside his apartment, but I can’t, again, let him go like that.

‘Wait!’, déjà vu words, turned upside down. ‘Do you want to take some coffee?’, that picks his full attention. He looks at me, watery eyes. Too clear, too pure. ‘I have donuts, too’, yes I’m trying to buy him with donuts. He’s doubtful, his eyes roam on the ground, trying to find something they don't know they're looking for; tickling seconds pass by and he finally nods. Just a tiny nod. As pragmatic as one can be, I think that’s and indication he’s coming to my apartment. I run back inside, tripping with the table on the way. Everything is in order thanks to the exhaustive cleaning I did a couple of days ago, just a few of my cassettes are out of place. I pick up ‘Their Satanic Majesties Request’ and put in on the boombox because everyone loves that album, right? I hope he likes it. I hear two almost quiet knocks at my door; _‘you see, my dear’_ , suddenly it’s hard to walk, _‘a cup of coffee is capable of merging two opposite poles’_ , and something flutters inside my stomach, shrinking it with every step I take, _‘to warm a chest that’s only known coldness’_. My hand strokes the doorknob, doubtful, afraid, _‘to draw a smile in a tortured soul’_. I breathe deeply, and I turn it without hesitation, _‘and burn the sleep you don’t need’_ , and he’s already there, standing in front of me. So close, so aloof.

‘Hi’, I whisper. 

‘You cut you hair’, he points out so suddenly, looking at me the same intense way he always does. ‘And you’re… bluer’. I’m melting.

‘Yes, I retouched my hair’, I’m shocked, and he pretty much notices it, but ignores it. He nods, waiting for me to say something else. My brain responds quite later, and he’s getting uncomfortable, still standing outside. ‘Come in, please’, I step aside, letting him walk in. Just as I was expecting him to, he scans his surroundings, looking for any threat. It kind of disorient me how he morphs from little scared puppy to super deadly spy; it’s not funny, it makes you wonder the reasons behind this binary behaviour. His muscles are tensed during his examination, but when he’s sure enough, he relaxes and walks all the way to my living-dinner-bed-room. ‘Take a sit, please’, he nods and sits on the right chair, facing me. I make my way towards the small kitchen inmediately, not wanting to make him wait and get uncomfortable, again.

‘You changed your mattress sheets’, he seems to be naming the things he sees different from the last time he saw me and was in my apartment. It’s kind of sweet. 

‘Yeah, I got bored of the white ones, I guess’, I grab the two cups and a box full of donuts and walk towards the table, putting them down carefully. I sit down, smiling at him. ‘Please, go ahead. There’s sugar and cream, if you want’. He looks at them, then picks up a couple of packets and starts to prepare his coffee. I notice he’s changed too; his stubble has grown back and his eyes look tired again. He hasn’t been sleeping, I can tell. I take a sip of my coffee and we settle on a comfortable silence. It surprises me how habitual are the things we do, the familiar feeling of sharing the same space when we haven’t know each other for so long. What I do know now is that he likes his coffee with extra sugar and extra cream. He takes his first sip and I can see the corner of his mouth form a tiny curl. My smile grows, ‘Is it good?’.

‘Really good, thank you’, he prises. He grabs a donut, chosing the chocolate and chips one. I feel my cheeks blushing at the memory of me thinking about him while I was at the store; I ended up buying that one for him if we ever got a chance like this. A nice picture of the two of us framed by the window can be taken from outside, just as that sandwich day. ‘Aren’t you going to put anything in your coffee?’, he frowns.

‘No, I like it simple’.

‘But it’s too bitter, isn’t it?’, he grimaces like he can taste it himself. I chuckle. 

‘I got used to the flavour long ago, it’s not that bad’, I shrug and he looks confused, but he accepted my statement. 

‘Who’s playing on the radio?’, the radio? He turns, looking for the device.

‘The Rolling Stones’, I answer, a little hesitant. ‘Do you like them?’. He shakes his head in a silent negation. ‘Do you want me to change to something else?’, I suggest.

‘No, it’s fine. I meant– I don’t know them, but I like them, so far’, I petrify on my chair. He doesn’t know The Rolling Stones. There are two possibilities that could explain this: one, he just doesn’t like that kind of music, or two, he’s a hermit. None of them make sense to me.

‘You really don’t know them?’, the wary look he gives me answers my question. Stupid. I can feel something is not right. The topic is not appealing to him, but is beyond that. I study his face; he’s scared, like I’m going to reproach him for his answer. He takes another donut in silence. ‘Well’, there’s only one thing I can do to fix this without making him feel bad about it. ‘Do you want to know them? You can borrow my cassettes, if you want’, he stops chewing his donut. ‘Take my boombox, I have a few more that you might like to listen’, he looks at me again, and I drink all the blue of those beautiful eyes. So broken and hurt. He opens his mouth a few times, not sure of what he’s going to say, but after a moment he takes to think carefully, he asks:

‘What kind of music do you like?’, he avoids accepting my offer, but he tries to carry on with the conversation.

‘I’m quite old fashioned, a like a lot of bands and singers, but everything is basically from the 50’s to the 90’s’, he frowns, ‘I like Maroon 5 and La Roux, though’, I confess. ‘What about you?’. He seems more comfortable when I’m the one answering because the moment I ask something about him, he gets anxious.

‘I– I don’t listen to music… very often’, every question I ask is worse than the previous one. I feel guilty for making him get this nervous.

‘It’s okay, as I said, you can borrow my boombox, here’, I stand up and walk towards where the boombox is, lifting it up, but when I turn to go back to him, he’s already standing by my side, inspecting the device. He’s incredibly tall, or I’m incredibly small, because he leans and bows his head to have a good view of what’s in my hands. My eyes are level to his chest, his broad shoulders doubling my figure. I gulp. ‘Look, you just press this button to stop the cassette, then this one, you take it out and put the other one inside and press this other button to start it playing’, his face is serious, paying attention to my instructions. ‘Here you have’, I hand him the boombox and he takes it with such delicacy that it makes me feel like a beast for the way I treat it some times. He looks back at me, but his eyes are no longer curious, they’re narrowed, suspicious. 

‘Why?’, his voice is deep dark, threatening. I blink, not able to understand what direction took the twist in our conversation. I’m nervous now, and he’s tensed again. Uptight, frightened, ready.

‘It’s just’, I’m not sure of what I’m going to say; if I let him know how I feel, what I want, he’s never going to come back, but I can’t lie to him. He doesn’t deserve it. The space between us hurts, like I burn his skin and he’s consuming the air I try so hard to take in. We’re canceling each other. ‘I just want you to know who The Rolling Stones are’, I finally say. It takes him aback. ‘and I don’t want you to be scared of it’, there it is. If he was surprised by my previous answer, this one definitely shock the hell out of him. He’s paralyzed, still too close. My body senses his warmth and despair. I didn’t say what he’s afraid of, but I don’t need to. He knows that I know, that I feel it. He’s trembling; he doesn’t want to break the boombox, he doesn’t want to hurt me. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything’, I try to sound as calm as I can, he’s stepping away, towards the door. He’s walking fast, turning his back to me. ‘Bucky…’, my call stops him. He doesn’t look at me; his hand is one sigh away from opening the door.

‘How?’, it’s just a simple question, but it holds back a million of secret words, hidden pleas and desires. I should back down right now, I should apologize and let him go. But I can’t let him go. Every time I look at him, that he looks back at me, I can feel it. I don’t know exactly what it is, but his eyes are wide open for me to read, and I know he can’t do this alone. He doesn’t need _me_ , he needs help.

‘Your nightmares, the other night’, I hear him gasp, then he opens the door and slams it closed. I didn’t hear him go inside his apartment, maybe he’s going to run away again. The air still smells like coffee when I'm prisoner of the cold silence he left behind, and I’ve never felt so hopeless before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLOOOO I'M BACK! I'm so sorry I'm updating this late; finals got rough and the chapter got longer. If it makes you feel better, I kind of wanted to cry while I was writing this. I hope you like it :D Now that I have more free time, I might update more often or update two chapters at once. Hopefully both. Thank you so much for reading and leaving me comments. You truly are amazing, THANK YOU! :D


	8. Silent Running

I keep the boombox secured between my arms as I run upstairs toward the rooftop. If I don’t check on my strength I will break it, and I don’t want to do that because it would make Robin feel so sad… _Robin_. I’ve heard her music playing from her apartment, and I’ve heard her singing. _Robin_. She was so blue and kind. I didn’t dare to look at her after what happened the other night, and she just smiled, like she always does. Her heart-shaped smile, always a bit fond, always a bit sad. _Robin_.

She knows; she heard. The night I had that bloody nightmare, she brought me back and kept me conscious, but she got a glimpse of the horrors I’ve been trying to tame. She heard them. _I don’t want you to be afraid of it_. I’m not afraid, I’m angry. I’m furious. I can’t have a normal conversation with her because I don’t know a damn thing about the world, yet I know everything about it, its darkness and lies, how cruel and evil it is. But she makes everything look so natural; food, coffee, talking, sleeping, living. That’s what frightens me the most; her knowing, and understanding it. _You don’t have to tell me anything_. I know, because I already have. The way I move around her, the way I talk to her, the way I look at her, it gives it all away. All of me. I finally reach the last floor and open the metal door that leads outside. It’s cold and deserted. I sit on a big wooden box and put down the boombox, which is hard to place properly because of its size, next to me and press the button that will, according to her instructions, start playing the cassette. The Rolling Stones. I wasn’t lying when I told her I liked them, but their music is so different from the one I used to listen to, a good kind of different, but strange all the while. The first song is weird; I thought it was about war at first, then something religious but at the end I didn’t know what was it about. The second song reminds me of her, what it's to be with her. It makes me feel confident, less threated, a little safer. But I’m uneasy as well, I’m still unable to trust myself and when she’s near, I feel like I could hurt her any given second. And that terrifies me. She’s peaceful, her mere essence, apple and marshmallow, eases the demons of my mind. I smile; I really like this song. The third one makes me want to cover my ears; it’s about a man, he’s part of a world he doesn’t belong to, he does bad things, but nobody understand him. He’s a 2000 man. Parallel worlds and mirrored lives. I’m a man who doesn’t belong anywhere, not Brooklyn, not Russia, much less here. I’ve been the monster, the killer. The Winter Soldier. Nobody knows about me. I’m nobody. Before my mind drifts any farther away, a piano starts to play. A happy melody mingles with the air and every word has her face. _She comes in colors everywhere_. Blue hair and purple nails. _She combs her hair_. Sad eyes and moonlight skin. _She's like a rainbow._ Tinkerbell mixed with summer breeze. _Coming colors in the air_. Sunset smiles and broken wings. _Oh, everywhere_. Robin. _She comes in colors_. 

The song paints the night blue and gold. Rainbow Robin. She paints the whole world blue, and purple, and pink, and brown. But, no. I can’t give it a try, I can’t let her help me. I can’t trust her. She’s a stranger. The rest of the cassette is listened by a quiet mind, Robin wanted me to know who The Rolling Stones are, and not being afraid of it. I’m not afraid, I’m angry. I look how the city changes with every passing hour, I press the button that stops the cassette while the lights shine their brightest and then die when the sun rises. The air gets warmer, the sky is covered by fleecy clouds and for one moment the sun and the moon share the same space. She's like the sun, and I'm the moon. _Robin_. I can’t do this, I can’t be ordinary, human. Human with her.

I stand up and walk towards the edge of the building, taking a sit on the ledge and waiting for the day to fully wake up. I like to see the city from above, it gives me a sense of control of what happens down there, full view of everyone’s movements. It’s a compromising position too, open and vulnerable, but someone sneaking up on me this high without me noticing it, it’s not likely to happen. A blue spot catches my enhanced eyes. _Robin_. She’s wearing her white blouse and black jeans, and some kind of yellows shoes. Her now shorter hair is nicely combed and wavy, a few irregular locks fastened with bobby pins. Her lips have a rosewood tone, darker than her natural pink color, and her eyes have a little make up that deepen the brown of her irises. She looks so pretty. And she’s getting on a bus. What the hell is she doing? Her ankle isn’t fully healed, she’s not ready to go back to work. I fight every muscle of my body that wants to run downstairs and stop the bus with my bare hands to ask her why is she going to work if she isn’t recovered enough. Goddamnit, Barnes. Stop stalking her and go to get some food or whatever takes your mind off her. I take the boombox and head downstairs back to my apartment. When I’m standing in front of my door, the anxiety eats me alive. I enter, leave the boombox over the table and head outside. I need to do a sweep; I need to calm my nerves. The streets are the same, time steals the air from my lungs and the blood from my heart. There’s no one coming, no threat, no stranger. I’m just another shadow wandering the city, someone the world will forget at the end of the day.

‘ _Would you like another beer, sir?_ ’, a waiter asks. I’m in some kind of bar, every man here looks dangerous, tall and strong; none of them as deadly as myself. So I’m safe here, for now.

‘ _Yes, thank you_ ’, I dismiss him, because I can’t stand anyone’s voice. They’re all so noisy. The men are looking at me with caution, I can smell their uneasiness from my place in the corner of the filthy bar. I don’t give a damn. They all deserve to die. _Kill them_. All of them. _Kill them all_. After a few more beers, I’m done with this place; it has nothing to offer me. I can’t get drunk, so its services are useless for me.

I walk, I stop and I breathe. Mechanical motions. Back in my apartment, I refuse to touch the boombox. I want to listen to the cassette again, but I’m afraid I will break down something for my lack of knowledge. Damn it. The rainbow song plays inside my head, over and over again until I’m about to destroy my whole apartment. I’m tired of this goddamned, shitty square room. The walls imprison the sudden rage I disclaim. _Let it go and kill them_. I’m exhausted of the feeling that I’m constantly hitting the breaks every time I move. _Kill them until it’s enough_. My body’s jaded, it hurts to realize that if I don’t pay enough attention to my actions I will tear her fragile body in half and squeeze the pain from her brown eyes. _Kill her_. I’m a potential threat to her, but the pressure of my heart hammering against my chest when I hear footsteps walk upstairs is like a sedative sound that brings me back to my rational senses. _Robin_. She’s back, earlier, but she’s here. I need to give her back her radio and apologize for being such an idiot last night. I walk towards the door and I open it without hesitation. She’s here. Blue and bright.

‘Hey’, she says and smiles. Goddamnit, stop smiling at me! Don’t you see I’m dangerous, that I could kill you in the blink of an eye? Quickly. Efficiently. But you don’t care, do you?

‘Hi’, my throat is dry, making my voice sound husky. ‘How are you?’, I want to ask, as usual. ‘Were you at work?’, I’m curious about. ‘I liked The Rolling Stones’, I want her to know, but a ‘I still have your boombox’ is what I say next. My brainwashed skull decided to leave this battle to my mouth, and it’s making a great job at showing how fucked up everything inside my head is.

‘I know’, of course she does. She looks down and puts her hands behind her back. Bow-legged and nervous. Adorable as hell. ‘Did you listen to the cassette?’, she asks.

‘Yes, I did’, I’m finally catching up with the rhythm of this conversation. ‘I liked them a lot’. She looks up to me and her smile gets impossibly bigger. She’s shining with colors.

‘That’s awesome!’, she almost screams. I hold back a chuckle. ‘I was hoping you would’.

‘I did, but–’, her face falls, ‘I wanted to listen to it again, but I– I couldn’t, I didn’t know how to– and I didn’t want to damage your boombox’, great, Barnes.

‘Oh, I see’, she sounds relieved. ‘That’s not a problem, I’ll teach you how to do it, don’t worry’, her smile never stops being warm and gentile. ‘Do you want to come over? Have you eaten already? I just bought a couple of hamburgers’, Robin, my blue-haired neighbor that feeds me any chance she gets. I hesitate, I’m not sure this is a good idea, but she looks so happy that I liked her music that a tiny nod accepts her offer before I process the whole thing. ‘Could you bring the boombox, please, so I can show you how it works?’, she asks. Right. I go back inside my apartment and take it with me. I’m excited, I want to learn how to use this because it’s a short step, further, on adapting to this whole technologic era. She let her door open so I wouldn’t have to knock, and when I walk in, she’s getting ready her table for us to eat. My stomach writhes painfully at the sight of her, so… homelike. I put down the boombox where she had it last night and I walk towards her. ‘I hope you like it’. We sit and eat in silence, I try to hide how hungry I am, but I fail nicely. She never says anything, just an occasional question asking if I want water or orange juice, if I like the hamburger or if I’d like more fries.

‘You arrived earlier’, I point out. She’s looks at me like she’s amused by my statement.

‘My boss said I should take it easy, even though I’m much better, I must be careful’.

‘He’s right’, I agree, ‘Going out so soon is not good for you, not yet’. She stays quiet. I’ve never said anything like this to her. I was scolding her, confident of what I was saying… like I care about her. She clears her throat.

‘They told me I could stay with them all the time I needed, but it felt I was taking advantage of their hospitality and, well, I just missed being here, I guess’, I frown; she sighs. ‘I’m used to do my own things’, she shrugs and that’s the end of that topic. We finish eating without any more interventions. We’re so acquainted with each other presence that a silent sharing of space is better than an unnecessary conversation. I look at her every now and then, her eyes lost in her food. She really enjoys food, and coffee, and music. She turns to me like she caught my line of thought and asks:

‘What was your favorite song?’, shit. My face feels hot and my hands are a little sweaty.

‘I– I liked the rainbow one’, I pretty much whisper, avoiding her gaze.

‘She’s like a rainbow’, she declares. _You’re like a rainbow_. I think. ‘I really like that one too and, well, I actually like the whole record’, she chuckles, then pauses, wondering on what she’s going to say next. ‘There are a lot great bands and wonderful singers, and you–’, she’s doubtful. I frown. ‘You told me yesterday that you don’t listen to music very often and I would like to ask you if–’, don’t, Robin. Please. ‘If you’d want me to show you, to help you, so you know… more’, she purses her lips, not liking her choice of words. She wants to help me, and she’s stubborn as hell about it. I can read between the lines she said, I’m aware of what’s she willing to do, but is she? I think she is; she just doesn’t give a damn. This means a lot to both of us, it’s not just a woman asking her neighbor if he can help her to move a box, or me asking if she has a cup of sugar. It’s me letting her in, letting her be my neighbor, and maybe more. An ally. Someone I can trust. Shelter. A friend. But no, it’s too soon, too fast. I can’t catch up with her, with this life, this world. ‘Bucky?’, my name in her lips. Robin. She wants to help me. Rainbow Robin. She already has, every time she smiles at me and shares her food with me, when she knows what to do and what not to say. She helps me by being just my neighbor. Nothing more. But she wants to do more and I can’t put her on such a danger. If I hurt her… No. I’m not going to hurt her because I don’t want to, because I can be that strong. She can help me, she told me so in a silent plea. After all this time I’ve been running away, maybe I can get closer, just a little. Yes, I can do it. I can be helped, and maybe she’s the one that could help me. I can trust her.

‘Yes, I– I’d like that’, her whole face lights up. _She comes in colors everywhere_. She stands up and walks towards the boombox, lifting it and turning back to me. 

‘We don’t need to be here or in your apartment, for a change of air’, I hate that she reads me so well, how much I dislike these freacking squares we live in. She knows and I don’t hate it, at all. ‘We can go to the rooftop, no one ever goes there and we…’, I don’t listen to her, not really, because I’m looking at her; _She combs her hair_. Her blue, wavy hair. The lovely curve of her nose and lips. The warm light dripping from her eyes. _She's like a rainbow_. She trips with the table because she’s too distracted talking to me. _Coming colors in the air_. We’re walking upstairs and I don’t know how the boombox ended in my arms or what she’s laughing at. She hasn’t stop talking. Sunset bathes us with orange rays as we sit on the ledge, where I’ve been earlier today. She smells like apple and coffee. _Oh, everywhere_. Robin. _She comes in colors_. Rainbow Robin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! Oh, my God. I suffered a lot with this one. I truly hope you like it. I'm sorry I modified the last chapter, it was necessary u.u, also, I took off on Wednesday and couldn't update earlier. Still, I want to say I'm deeply thankful for your comments, it gives me life and energy to keep writing. Please, I'm open to comments, suggestions or anything your want to tell me. It helps me a lot. THANK YOU!!! :D


	9. Wonderful Life

Today is movie night. I grab my coat and purse and head towards the exit. The last costumer leaved a few minutes ago, giving me enough time to gather the dirty dishes, wash them, clean the tables and leave fifteen minutes earlier than usual. I’m not in a hurry, I’m excited, and my boss can’t help but make a comment about it.

‘ _Have fun_ ’, he says with a big smile on his face. ‘ _I’ll see you tomorrow_ ’, I nod a goodbye and run out of the café. I escape into the city lights, enjoying the cold air hitting my face; winter is almost here and there’s no denying it. The smile on my face hasn’t vanished from my lips, it’s been this way for the last two months. Two months that feel like a lifetime, a lifetime with him. My heartbeats rise, but I’m not sure if it’s out of excitement, the imminent consequence of my jogging attempt or something else. He’s waiting for me, back in our building, in his apartment, back… home. The word still has a bitter taste, but it’s sweeter indeed. Bittersweet home. Tonight is very important because we’re going to watch ‘Life is Beautiful’, an especial request from Bucky. The windows of the bus become a tape film that plays those moments, those brief seconds when I’ve felt, maybe not happy, but something that reminds me of happiness and peace, and that I will cherish for the rest of my life:

_We’re at the rooftop, as usual, sitting on the ledge while the sun shines its last warm rays. I bought some bags of candies, all kind of candies, and Bucky’s tasting one by one, telling me which ones are the best and why._

_‘This one is caramel and chocolate, try it’, he encourages, handing me the candy. He knows I’m not very fond of sweet things, so he’s been very selective about them. I take the candy and bite it. ‘No, no! All of it! It thaws inside your mouth!’. Bucky, I-could-rip-your-head-off-and-look-cute-while-I-do-it, my scary neighbor, telling me how to eat candies. The Lord works in mysterious ways. ‘It’s delicious’, he says enthusiastically, humming the Queen’s song that’s playing, ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’. Bucky loves candies and Queen._

Some other time, we were walking upstairs after bumping into each other at the entrance. He was wearing that black beanie that makes his eyes look bigger and her face more childish. His forever gloved hands are full, carrying big boxes of takeaway. It was Friday night.

_‘I thought I could bring the food this time’, he says, ‘Is it okay?’, he frowns, troubled._

_‘Sure, it smells good’, he nods, pleased with his decision. As expected, my lungs are reproaching the effort of not stopping to rest until we reach the fifth floor. Bucky notices and stops. He looks at me with fearful eyes, not afraid of me, but for me._

_‘Are you okay?’, there is deep worry in his tone. I try to control the pace of my breathing, but my chest betrays me, rising and falling in heavy gasps. ‘Robin?’, the lack of air prevents me from answering, and that unsettles him even more. He puts down the bags and steps closer to me. ‘Robin, what’s the matter?'_

_‘I– I’m fine’, aren’t you of about to lose both of your lungs? ‘I just need some rest’, yeah, right._

_'Don’t lie to me’, he sounds offended by my explanation. ‘Come on, I’ll carry you’, he starts to move so I can climb on his back, again._

_'No’, my voice is strangely firm, and it makes him stop. ‘I’m fine’. I try to reach to him, convince him that I don’t need him to carry me this time, that nothing’s wrong with me even though it is. He purses his lips; he’s mad. ‘Bucky, no’, I beg him. ‘I swear it’s not necessary’, his face softens and looks down, ashamed, nervous, uncomfortable._

_‘But your leg and your breathing...’, I’m not sure why I don’t crumble down right now. My whole body feels puffy and my bones are spongy. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt’, he confesses._

_‘I won’t’, I promise._

He has never made a comment about it. He’s aware of my asthma, but after that day, he just waits for me to recover and then we keep going. That simple. It’s a mutual agreement, in spite of our stubbornness (and boy, are we stubborn), we respect each other, and we know when it’s enough, when we have to stop pushing. It’s been a lot of working, for both of us, he’s learned how to trust me bit by bit, how to lessen his on-guard and defensive nature, and I’ve learnt how to read him, how to get close and make him feel safe, not just with me, but with himself and the rest of the world. I’ve been trying to guide him, and he’s letting me doing it.

_‘What’s the name of this again?’, he asks, his eyebrows joining in the middle of his forehead._

_‘It’s a VHS, for Video Home System, and it’s a video tape where you can see movies, or a video you recorded with a camera’, I realized, not later after that evening on the rooftop, that Bucky doesn’t know a thing about technology, or pop culture and modern topics, thus before I try to introduce him to the whole DVD or Blu-Ray stuff, not to mention internet, I should start with the simplest of all. ‘This is a VHS player; it plays the tape so we can see it on the TV’._

_‘Like the cassettes on the boombox?’_

_‘Exactly’, he looks like he wants to ask more, but he doesn’t._

_‘What are we going to watch?’, he asks instead._

_‘Grease, a movie from the 70’s’, I smile, ‘It’s one of my favorites’._

He loved the movie, the music and dancing, ‘the colors’, he said, and practically idolized John Travolta. It was a good start for him and I was relieved that it didn’t affect him in a bad way. Another aspect I’m careful about it’s what we talk about, what we can watch or listen to given that he’s extremely sensitive to certain topics. Dance movies, singing movies or kids movies were more appealing when we started. It’s a huge contrast to what I expected, I must confess, that could be interesting to him. When I steal a glance of him, deeply focused on what he’s watching, his face is a puzzle, there’s amusement, occasional joy, and he has this nostalgic veil on his eyes, like he misses something. Something he doesn’t know. I never ask him what he’s thinking about, I promised he didn’t have to tell me anything, that I would respect his silence. But there was a time when it slipped on me and I asked him about… personal things, a few weeks back, and it didn’t end up well:

_‘Even though it’s my favorite movie, I think she’s too proud and stubborn’, I say after watching Flashdance. ‘She’s passionate and strong, I just have issues with her behavior some times’. I turn to look at him, he’s sitting on the floor next to me, we use a bunch of cushions as seats in front of the TV._

_‘She was angry, and she’s young’, he explains. ‘I like her, though, she has guts’, I smile at him, and I can see a slight blush on his cheekbones. This is the fourth Friday since we started with the ‘movie night’ thing, and I can’t be happier to see him this relaxed. Although he’s still very quiet, his demeanor is definitely more open. I frown, a question formulates in my mind, like an impulse to ask and know, and my mouth can’t stop itself from opening._

_‘How old are you, Bucky?’, he slowly turns to look at me. His eyes are empty._

_‘I…’, his hands are shaking before his whole body gets stiff. His skin gets paler; his lips are trembling. ‘I’m– I don’t know– I’m sorry, I– I can’t– I can’t tell you’, I want to slap myself right now. One of the things I hate the most is seeing him desperate, clinging to reality, and me being the reason for this to happen is even worse._

_‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t–’, I start, but he stands up so abruptly that I stuck right there in my place._

_‘You’re sorry? Sorry for what? For asking my age? For just asking a question?!’, he yells, making me jump and stand up as well, my breath hitching in my throat. He walks in circles, his breathing is erratic, like he’s trapped inside a cage. Like an animal. ‘S–stop doing that because– because it’s NOT YOUR GODDAMNED FAULT!’, he shouts and throws a chair through the air, it hits the opposite wall and shatters like it’s made of glass. My blood gets freezing cold. The silence is drowning us like quicksand, our heartbeats too loud and drilling. I’m shocked, not just because of this undeniable proof of his true strength, but for the fact that he lost control. Ever since we met, he’s been able to restraint the rage inside him, but this time what I said triggered the gun. ‘None of this is! It’s– It’s not…’, his voice breaks in that moment, aware of what’s he’s done. I fight against the terror, against every single voice telling me to run away from him, and I walk towards him, cautiously._

_‘Vernis’...’, my voice is fragile, too afraid and wretched. ‘Vernis’ ko mne’, I whisper. His brain clicks and his whole body goes limb, the adrenaline draining from it._

_‘Robin…’, his face softens. ‘Robin’. It’s not an affirmation, he’s trying to figure out who’s he with, where, and when. He’s afraid now. ‘I’m so sorry, Robin. I’m–’, he steps further away, giving us as much distance as he can. He wants to run away._

_‘Don’t go, I’m fine’, I say in a reassuring tone, ‘You’re fine, you’re safe’, his breathing is heavy; he’s panicking. ‘You’re here, with me. I’m Robin’, I smile. He’s looking at me, recognizing me. Knowing me._

_‘Robin’, she repeats, more to himself again. I nod quickly, relieved, and he takes a deep, painful breath. He’s back._

He went back to his introvert behavior for a while after that episode, but I eventually convinced him that he didn’t do anything bad, that he didn’t hurt me and we were okay, safe, and I replaced the chair the next day. Last week, we were having dinner outside while we were listening to Blink 182, and when I say outside, I mean our balconies. He brought chicken shwarma and fried cheese from downtown. I almost cried of joy, and he looked amused by my effusive reaction when I saw our dinner; he smiled. Not one of those hidden, subtle twists in the corner of his mouth, he smiled so wide that I could see his teeth, aligned and bright, and that joy reached to his eyes. I felt a tickling inside my stomach, it was fluttering, and my chest was too small to my swelling heart. I couldn’t stop looking at him, how beautiful he was, how pure and distant at the same time. Cosmic. The brightest star of all.

_‘… I didn’t understand very much at first, but then I got used to the accent’, he’s talking about Billy Elliot, our latest movie. He’s been cheerful and chatty all evening. ‘His teacher is amazing’, he praises. ‘What are we going to see next week?’, his excitement melts my insides._

_‘I’ve been thinking about it and it might be good to watch something else that is not music or dancing related’. Besides Grease, Saturday Night Fever, West Side Story, Flashdance and Billy Elliot, we’ve only seen Beetlejuice and Little Rascals. I remember how my heart stopped when Bucky closed his eyes and shook his head, covering his face with one hand and chuckling behind his fingers when Alfalfa said ‘All knights ride into battle wearing the colors of their lady fair!’ and put Darla’s handkerchief in the front of the race car._

_‘What do you have in mind?’, his question brings me back from the picture of his own smile._

_‘I’m still figuring it out’, I sigh, feeling troubled because I haven’t come up with a good option yet. He frowns. His eyes are no longer here with us. It’s a different kind of lost, not the fearful and desperate one, is more like wondering and curious._

_‘Are there any– any World War II movies?’, he asks timidly. The question takes me aback. He’s never been interested in a particular topic; he’s accepted everything I’ve showed him without any complaint or suggestion. This is new, but welcomed._

_‘Yes, there are many of them’, I answer, a little confused. ‘Do you want to watch a specific one?’_

_‘No, I just– I–’, he hasn’t been this nervous in a while, even his stuttering isn’t that often anymore. It’s cute. ‘There are a lot of things they’ve made movies about, and I thought, think, that it was possible that there’s one that you might know, and we could watch it’. He looks down, he does that when he’s afraid that I might not like what he’s doing or saying, when he thinks he’s doing something bad._

_‘Okay, I will check what’s in our magic box’, I grin. I showed Bucky where I keep my movies, the VHS ones, and he was sincerely amazed by the amount I have. I call it the magic box because it doesn’t matter how many I take out, there are always a lot left._

_‘Thank you’, he says before going silence for the rest of our dinner._

The tape stops when I recognize the suburbs’ streets at the other side of the window. I’m back. While I walk upstairs, not too fast, otherwise I’ll be gasping before I reach the second floor, I wonder if Bucky would be already home. I don’t know what he does all day while I’m at work, but sometimes I wait for him, sometimes he’s waiting for me inside his apartment, and when he hears me arrive, he comes out and knocks at my door. I don’t know if he has a nice job (because he loves to be surrounded by people) that keeps him occupied, or if he just wanders through the city, trying to disappear from everyone’s eyes, invisible to this world. Like me. The picture of him having one of those horrible episodes on his own, alone and terrified, getting hurt, increases the speed of my steps and I find myself almost running up the last two floors. I pay the price when I’m in front of my door. I’m sweating cold, my hands and legs are shaking, and I’m dizzy, the world spinning so fast around me that it’s just a blur of colors. The asthma hasn’t been so rough before, not even at the beginning, but I haven’t taken the medicine in a long time, since I left, to be exact, and my lungs have taken their toll. I’m going to pass out, I know because the corners of my vison are blurry and darker, my fingertips are tickling and I’m pretty much already on the floor. 

‘Robin!’, I hear someone shouting my name. ‘Robin, what happened?!’. It’s Bucky. He stands in front of me, grabbing my arms and supporting me with his hands, his eyes are searching for any injuries just above the surface. His grip is soft, embracing me. Protecting me. ‘You’re so pale, and you’re sweating’, he’s dead worried. I must look really bad for him to be this alarmed. ‘Come here’, he picks me up effortlessly, carrying me bridal style and heading towards his apartment. I’m suddenly hyperaware of one thing; I’ve never been inside Bucky’s apartment. Oh, Good Lord in heaven, let me get through this alive. He kicks his door open, I’m sure he broke the lock while doing it, and walks in with me in his arms. He puts me down gently on his bed; it never stops amazing me how delicate and careful he can be, like that time when I dislocated my ankle. My breathing is stabilizing, I inhale deep and slowly, like I used to when I was younger. Bucky hands me a glass of water, but helps me drinking after realizing that I’m unable to hold it. He gives me a few minutes to fully recover, my heavy breathings the only thing that can be heard in the room. ‘One of these days you’re going to throw up your lungs’, I let out a panting laugh, but he’s unfazed, serious. The blue of his eyes is like sea foam, clearer than the sky. ‘It’s getting worse’, he declares, narrowing those spherical oceans of his. ‘You need medicine’, is he reading my mind?

‘I know’, that’s all I can say, and he nods. I look around, but there aren’t many things; a simple table with two chairs, the kitchen set, like mine, wooden shelves hold by big bricks and a small closet with a few clothes hanging next to his bed. He has near fifteen items, most of them are ragged, long-sleeved shirts and jackets. He notices my studying eyes and shrugs.

‘It isn’t much, but it’s enough’, he says casually. ‘Do you wanna stay here?’, he’s offering out of politeness, but I sense a bit of discomfort.

‘There’s still that cookies and cream ice-cream you like on the fridge’, I avoid saying ‘no’. I don’t feel ready to share his privacy, we’re not ready yet. He smiles and nods again, helping me on my feet. His right hand rests on the small of my back to provide support if needed. ‘I got the Fritt bars’, I say as we come out of his apartment. He tries to close the door, but as I thought, the door lock is broken, so he lets it ajar.

‘Great’, he sounds more relaxed. I knew that saving him the remains of the last Friday would be a good idea after all. We walk inside my place and he helps me get to the mattress; I put some of my cushions and pillows by my side for him to sit. He’s back with the ice-cream tub and a pair of cups and spoons. ‘I didn’t find the Fritt bars’.

‘Oh, I think I left them outside… on the floor’, I grunt. He turns and heads to the door, opening and bending to pick up the forgotten box of candies. I grab the ‘Life is Beautiful’ movie box, I put it on my lap and start to serve the ice-cream on the cups while he makes his way back. ‘Do you want to put the movie on?’, I ask him.

‘Are you sure?’, his face gets vulnerable. He feels insecure when I try to teach him something new.

‘Yeah, of course’, I assure him, ‘I’ll tell you step by step’, I smile at him, knowing it would calm him down. ‘Here’, I hand him the move box, ‘take it out, carefully’, I point out because he kind of destroyed the Abbey Road cassette when I told him to take it out of the boombox. ‘There’s a small arrow on one of the larger sides’, he nods, spotting the arrow. ‘Slide in the tape with the arrow pointing towards the player’, he does as I say, slowly and carefully. Thanks God. When it’s fully inside, he turns to me, looking for approval, and I lift both of my thumbs as a ‘great’ signal. He settles on the cushions, crossing his legs in front of him and bending them so he can rest his arms above his knees.

‘Oh, my God!’, he turns quickly, alarmed by my loud voice. ‘The movie is in Italian, and I totally forgot, I’m sorry’, I’m of about to take it out and tell him I will get it in English tomorrow at the movie store, but the stops me before I reach the VHS player.

‘It’s okay’, he says, confidence in his voice. I remember he told me, earlier when we barely talked, that he speaks many languages, but I didn’t know Italian was among them. I nod and let the movie keep playing. I’m nervous. This is new to him, there’s a lot of context in this movie that I didn’t know he was curious about, he asked me to watch something related to the World War II, but it makes me unsure and anxious. I have a bad feeling about this, not because I doubt my choice, after all it was the less violent I could think of, but the movie itself is very emotional, magical and funny, cruel and tragic, and I’m not sure if he would respond to this the way he has the last times. The first sequence fills the monitor and I try my best to focus on it, but it’s impossible; my eyes end up looking for him. His face is calm, there’s no tension or discomfort, he’s peacefully eating his ice-cream and Fritt bars. He’s enjoying his time, and I can’t blame him. Guido is exceptionally hilarious and witty, I love every time he bumps into Dora, greeting her with that _‘Buongiorno, Principessa!’_ that melts my soul. Oh, boy. If Bucky isn’t affected by this movie, I will definitely be the one crying her heart out at the end. I forget about my insecurities and start to give the story my full attention. I smile, I laugh, I eat my ice-cream, and so does Bucky. He’s deep caught into the images playing in front of him, his body relaxing completely. His legs are outspread and his weight rest on his elbows in a casual position. He has a broad smile when Guido makes his great entrance, riding the green-painted horse, into the ball room to take Dora with him. As the story goes on, his expression changes from amused to serious, then angry. His jaw clenches when the two, big guys take Guido with them, leaving his son alone in the bookstore. Then, when they’re getting ready for the birthday party the next day, my heart sinks in my chest as Dora walks in the house and finds out what happened. Bucky is no longer in a happy mood. He’s uneasy, moving and turning more often than before, and his gaze turns dark when Guido’s uncle is taken to the showers. His lips are a straight, sharp line that cuts his lips in two tightened parts. I’m trying to pay attention to the movie, but Bucky’s nervousness is more important now; I don’t know if he’s going to get furious and throw something, like the chair, or if I’m just overreacting about Bucky’s reactions. His eyes are watery when Guido sneaks inside the office and says _‘Buongiorno, Principessa!’_ through the microphone to tell Dora they’re fine, and alive. A single tear runs down my cheek, and I wipe it quickly. Everything goes unnoticed by me, I’m not able to track on the events anymore, it’s too sad and painful to see it, and to be aware that it happened, maybe not in the same way, maybe even crueler, maybe more dreadful, but it happened. When the internment is finally deserted and everyone leaves, the little kid comes out of his hiding place to face the tank his father told him he would win. The American army has arrived.

‘Stop it’, Bucky says suddenly, interrupting the dialogue on the background. ‘Please, stop it’, he demands, but begs at the same time. I press the ‘stop’ button immediately. He stands up, running his fingers through his hair. Desperate, scared, lost. He walks towards the open window, he breathes deeply, inhaling the fresh air that flows from outside. 

‘Bucky?’, I call his name in a whisper, but he doesn’t respond, not even turning to look back at me. 

‘They– We arrived, we helped them’, his eyes are wide open, looking inside his mind. I stand up, stepping closer to him. ‘We helped– we fought them, we killed them…’, he quivers, his breathing almost turned into shattering gasps. I call his name again, but he doesn’t seem to listen. I try to reach his arm, slowly. ‘DON’T TOUCH ME!’, he warns, shouting the words out. I shrink on the floor, too afraid now to do anything else. ‘Don’t touch me…’, he whispers. ‘I could– I could hurt you and– I– I…’, his voice cracks. There’s only one thing I dare to try, the one thing that has worked on him.

‘ _Vernis’..._ ’, I’m begging, praying he can listen. ‘ _Vernis’ ko mne_ ’. It has the opposite effect. He’s saying too many things at the same, flashing time. His words can’t be decoded, I can’t understand him. Help him. I’m useless. ‘ _Vernis’ ko mne_ ’, I try again in a hoarse plea. He finally turns and looks at me. He’s mortified.

‘ _Ya– ya ne mogu_ ’, he whimpers. Defeated. He storms out of my apartment, his heavy and rushed footsteps rumbling downstairs. Panicked. It doesn’t matter how much we’ve improved since we met, how much we respect and trust each other, how many things I could teach him; it’s not enough. I can’t help him the way he needs, I can’t take his hand strong, long enough to guide him and make him feel safe. He’s too broken. I drown in impotence, I’m as desperate as he is, just as lost and afraid. I can’t save him from the horrors he keeps a secret, from the nightmares that torture him at night. I’m not strong enough, even though I thought I was, I’ve been lying to myself. I crawl back to my bed, curling in fetal position, and I cry. The pain is just too much, he tore my heart in half when he said he couldn’t come back. Come back to me. And I cry because it hurts so much to accept it, I cry because there’s nothing more I can do.

‘I’m sorry, Bucky’, I mumble to the silence. ‘I’m so sorry…’, that’s the last thing I say before the darkness takes me completely and puts me down to slumber.

My hole body hurts before I even fully wake up, every single one of my muscles seems to be knotted, flipped upside out. I sit up on the mattress, closing my eyes again because the room is too bright, the light of the window I didn’t close is burning. My brain hammers against my skull, quick, merciless raps, and my bones crack every time I move, like a doll that hasn’t been played with in a long time. Rusted inside. My stomach twist, not out of hunger, but nausea and sickness. I stand up as quickly as I can and run towards the bathroom when I feel its emptiness crawling up my throat. Just what I needed. I wash my mouth and face, avoiding to look at the reflect of myself in the mirror, I’m afraid that I won’t recognize the eyes looking back at me, just like Bucky can’t recognize me sometimes. I curse under my breath as I walk back to the other room, feeling weak and limb, my legs are shaking so much that I have to support myself on the table. I grab my cellphone and text Mr. Tanase to let him know I won’t be going to work today. God knows I will faint before I make it out of my apartment. I let out a deep sigh, covering my eyes with one hand; the sunlight in unbearably strong and the coldness of the morning makes me shiver. I can’t help but think about what I’ll do next now that I’m slightly more conscious, wondering if I should look for him later, make sure he didn’t hurt himself, or just give him space, as always, let him breathe. I’m thinking too much. I’m exhausted, beaten to death and distressed, but I can’t fight the worry I feel for him. I need to make sure he’s fine, and safe. I need him here, by my side, where I can bring him back every time he loses himself, or at least try to. Maybe I have to break my promise and ask him to tell me something, anything that could make this clearer for both of us and bring us closer. I need him to trust me a little more. I hear a knock on my door, my senses coming to full alert and the soreness of my body diming enough to move without breaking. I pray it’s him. I need it to be him. I rush towards the door, tripping with the chair on my way, and I open it in a harsh movement. 

‘Hello, little robin’. I feel my whole body go numb at the sight of the man in front of me. The air of my lungs burst outside and explodes in a yelp. He’s here. The crude, ice-cold blue of his eyes hasn’t turned any gentler, nor the paleness of his skin. His jet-black hair is shorter and his lips are curved in an amused grin, looking handsome and fresh, full of strength and energy. Suddenly, I’m back to that cold house with high walls and marble floor, a dream inside a nightmare, a rose among the thorns. Ghosts and demons take me back to a past I’ve been running away from; a memory I’ve been trying to bury in the darkest place of my soul. They’ve come to take me back where I can’t go back, where I don’t belong to.

‘Liev...’, I whisper, my mind far too gone, too faint.

‘The one and only’, he chuckles, fixing the tie of his silver-gray suit. ‘What a lovely place you have’, he scoffs and steps inside without my consent. I collect myself as he scans my apartment, shaking his head in disapproval.

‘What are you doing here?’, I ask him in a not-so-gentle tone.

‘Oh, come on! I haven’t seen you in ages and, this is how you greet me?’, he fakes a hurt expression, putting his hand above hi heart, unable to stop himself from laughing. ‘I thought you knew better manners’. He smirks, as handsome and charming as I remember. But I remember too much, and those memories make my blood boil and my mouth go dry and bitter. He notices the change in my expression and his grin turns teaser. ‘Aren’t you glad to see me? I’ve missed you so much, my little robin, and so has Alexander’, I flinch at the mention of that name. The bastard knows how to play his cards. He always has.

‘Get the hell out of here, now!’, my reaction just makes him laugh again, harder this time. I push him backwards, punching his chest to make him move and calling him nasty names in Russian. He grabs my hands and leans forward, no longer amused, closing the distance between our faces, looking at me with menacing eyes.

‘Do that again and I will–’

‘Enough’, a female voice says from behind us. Liev releases my wrists and moves aside to reveal a slim and gracious figure standing under the threshold of my door. Lugubrious and surreal. The numbness that Liev’s sudden appearance made me feel is nothing compared to this dreadful change in the air she brings to the room, my whole body reacts in terror, stepping backwards, as far as I can from her; Irina. The sight of her it's painful, not just because of the abhorrent memories looming between us, nor my resentful reaction towards their presence, but because the mournful resemblance she owns from someone loved and long lost. She’s like a ghost, _her_ ghost, she has the same big, deep blue eyes that could cut you like a knife, the shape of her nose and face, strong angles carved on marble. The same hair color, darker than night itself, straight and soft, but her lips are different. Irina’s lips are fuller and larger, crimson red, like they’re covered by blood. Deadly. ‘I see you’re incapable of executing the simplest of tasks, brother’, she still has that strong Russian accent. She steps closer, walking inside. Her movements are feline and sensual, drawing a hypnotizing nature on her, almost animalistic. Instinctive. Impassive. She settles right next to her brother, contrasting his gray figure with her tight midnight-blue dress, and both of them are now facing me; too powerful, too beautiful, too lethal. ‘Hello’, she smiles at me, freezing my blood with that pervasive glare of hers. For one single moment, I push back the fear corroding my bones and I lift my chin, facing her with pride and boldness, daring to open my mouth:

‘What are you doing here?’, my voice is solid, challenging them.

‘Stop your nasty behavior’, she shots back, her smile vanishing as if it never was there ‘We’re here to inform you that Alexander has been diagnosed terminal’, she doesn’t hesitate or stops, her voice reminding me of the rhythm of a typewriter. Precise, and terrifyingly emotionless. 

‘What?’. I let out a gasp, overwhelmed by the meaning of the words she doesn’t seem to thaw, not even to make them less stabbing.

‘It’s the least he deserves’, says her brother, diverted. ‘And without your help, or care, he wasn’t going to make it that far, was he?’ he grins, defiant.

‘We need you to sign this’, Irina ignores Liev’s comment, rolling her eyes in annoyance, and hands me a white folder. Blunt and straight to the point. 'It will remove all responsibility from you as his last surviving relative’, she looks at me with disdain, explaining as if I’m too stupid to understand while I take the folder with trembling hands. ‘The hospital will take care of him until he dies, they will afford the funeral expense as well’. That was it.

‘Can you be more sympathetic, Irina?’, I say sarcastically, spitting at her with a poisonous question. 

‘I’m sorry, am I supposed to feel sad about it?’, her voice is higher. She’s losing control, and I’m surprised, and maybe a little amused, that after all these years she’s still as volatile as ever. ‘Has your time away made you forget of what he did, or do I have to remind you?’, she’s barely controlling her rage. So wild.

‘That won’t be necessary’, I answer quickly, looking down, intimidated. She hands me a pen, her feigned politeness gone by now. I take it and open the folder, looking for the right place and signing above the line that has my name under it, not minding reading the document. I want them to go before I take another shaky breath. Liev receives the folder and looks at his sister, who tightens her lips and nods.

‘We brought you something’, he says and calls their footman, a blonde man who enters my apartment, holding a big box in his arms. He places it on the table, not even lifting his face and walks back to the entrance, standing firmly outside the door. He knows better. ‘I don’t need to ask if you want them, because you need them’, I frown, but then I look at the box and recognize its colors and shape; it’s the medicine for my asthma. Without another word, Irina turns around and walks out of the room, followed by her brother very closely. They move in sync, their bodies mimicking each other as they disappear from my sight. The blond man turns to me and bows, closing the door as he leaves as well.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I’ve been left alone, but far from understanding what happened. They were here. I know they were here because their cold presence lingers in the air. It was too fast and unreal; I can barely hold on this moment. But one thing, one single thing that I can touch with my fingertips, one second is true: they were here. Those tall figures and sharp factions. The twins. Cruel. Matching. Dangerous. Those demons, those very ghosts hunting me. My heart is about to explode, my whole body is shaking in fear as I realize that I’ve been found, that I’m no longer safe in this place. I wonder if I’ve ever been safe. This can’t happen, not now, not ever. A sob escapes from my mouth, too deaf and distant that I can barely hear it. I curse myself, because I’ve never felt so lame, realizing that everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been trying to left behind has finally reach out to me. I didn’t run far enough; I didn’t hide deep enough. They could see me while I was invisible, when I was just another ghost. Nobody. No one. They found me where I couldn’t be found, where I was supposed to be safe, but no. I can’t be safe anymore, that’s why I can’t help Bucky to feel safe either. We’re both lost and terrified. Homeless. A wave of longing invades every corner of my body; I wish I could be with him right now. Always, forever. The two of us just like everyday, every time. Safe. I need him to be here again, back home, back to me. I close my eyes, and I daydream about him. His eyes collecting every piece of my heart, of my mind and soul, his lips telling me how much he likes that rainbow song, his chest humming while we sit next to each other at sunset. Timeless clock-hands tick until there’s a knock on my door again, a shy and doubtful knock, and I’m close enough to just stretch my arm and turn the doorknob. How long have I been here? How long can I disappear this time? I don’t care, because when I open the door, and my eyes, the warm water of his eyes tells me it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter anymore. The veil is down. I’m exposed. I’m a throbbing nerve.

‘Robin…’, he calls a name. Robin. Who is Robin?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH-MY-GOD. So, this happened, and I don't regret it :P Bucky is a mess. Robin is a mess. But they'll get better soon, I promise. I don't get tired of thanking you, thank you for your comments and kudos, and I must tell you: we're heading to the exciting part of this story, and I hope, deep in my heart, that you're liking it. Please, feel free to comment, critic or ask me anything. I always answer :) Have a wonderful weekend! You're the best of the best :D


	10. Belong

I run like crazy until my lungs are empty and sore. _Grab my hand!_ The turmoil rushing through my veins sets my body ablaze. _Bucky!_ The star, the white, silver star explodes into a million of fuzzy images and faces, transporting me to another land no longer known, another time almost forgotten. _Sergeant Barnes_. I hear firing guns and desperate shouts, mine and someone else’s, I smell gunfire and blood, I walk through dead bodies and lost souls. And there’s a train, a hand reaching out to me to save me, a familiar smile and blue eyes that only saw me falling, crashing, dying. _The man on the bridge_. All I could see was red and blue, all I felt was fire and ice. Reborn from the snow and ashes, buried for timeless ages, I was called The Asset. I have to follow my orders, I have to kill him, make him disappear. _You’re my mission_. He wears two faces, the one that’s a mirage of myself, an unknown shadow, and the one I’ve dreamt of, forlorn in my mind. My chest is filled by sorrow and loneliness; I knew him. I remember him, I read about him, but he’s never whole, he’s just fragments of rusted pictures that don’t make sense, not matter how much I push them together, they remain a puzzle. _Steve_. I stop running when everything is left behind, finding myself surrounded by trees and darkness, alone. The air here is glacial, burning my nose, and the moon shines with white light, sending chills through my spine, preventing the sunset smiles and blue fire from giving me their warm. _You know me…_

‘NO I DON’T!’, I shout to the dark silhouettes and voices whispering to the night. _Bucky…_ My breathing becomes a set of heavy gasps. ‘NO!’, I scream until my head buzzes and my throat burns, but no one listens. _You’ve known me your whole life_. I shake my head, desperate. I don’t have a life, it’s just a lie, a denial. I’m no one, just a ghost, just a killer, just a monster. _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes_. ’SHUT UP!’, his voice drills into the ice. I throw punches at his invisible presence, but he doesn’t go, his quiet voice keeps telling me things I try to shut with my screams. He has to die; he has to disappear. _I’m with you…_ ‘STOP!’, there’s so much noise, so much water, so much silent, so much fire. So much, just so much. I crumble down on my knees, my eyes are drained from life and my ears are tired from being lied to. _I’m with you…_ I’m all alone. ‘Please, stop’, a sob escapes from my lips. I’m tired, I’m jaded, I’m lonely. _I’m with you… till’ the end of the line._ I curl into fetal position and I close my eyes, hoping it will go away, praying it will vanish, begging it will stop. ‘Steve…’, there’s no lullaby this time, there’s no warm and no bird’s songs, just the coldness of the ground against my cheek and the emptiness of the space around me. The night is spent among these memories and whispers, my nightmares try to rebuild a long lost life and find out who this haunting shadow truly is. But they’re gone.

Sunrise is frozen, the world wakes up earlier and a wind of peace finally takes the weight off my body. I open my eyes and immediately look around, detecting any potential threat, but there isn’t, and I realize I’m in the middle of the woods. This place is farther away than any other I’ve been, there’s a strong, wild essence in the air that tells me I’m nowhere near the city. Still, I can see some kind of path between the trees. I stand up, shake the dirt and grass on my clothes and start walking out of there, avoiding as many triggering thoughts as I can. I’m exhausted, but I know I have to go back. I walk until I enter the city and the streets become familiar, wandering until I find that place I’ve been looking for, some place called home. _Come back_. Her voice rumbles inside my head and heart, tinkerbell mixed with summer breeze, lighting up the way, guiding me through it. _Come back to me_. There’s our building; I’m back. She called for me, she brought me back, and I always come back to her. _Robin_. The stairs fade under my feed and the agony dims when I’m right in front of her door. I don’t feel the wood against my knuckles, neither I see the door being opened; suddenly I’m facing her. Her blue hair is tousled by her pillow, there are huge bags under her eyes and her skin is dry and greenish, sick. She’s still wearing her uniform; her shoes on and her clothes wrinkled. The make up of her eyes and lips is smeared, making something inside of me smile at the memory of her when we first met, her doll face ruined by sadness and rain. I want to tell her I never meant to run away, tell her I’m sorry for losing control and promise I won’t do it again, but the words are stuck on my throat, and I can’t lie to her that way, staying only meant hurting her, or worse. She must have been so worried and scared after what I did last night. A twinge of guilt makes me tighten my fists. 

‘Robin’, I say out loud, smoothing the harsh silence between us. ‘I’m sorry’, those words come out of my mouth more often that I’d like them to. I hung my head, ashamed. ‘I shouldn’t–’

‘How are you feeling now?’, her voice is barely a whisper, but acute and gruff. She just passively slapped me. 

‘Better’, I answer quietly, bewildered. She turns and I step inside, not tearing my eyes off her for one second. The way she moves and breathes, her eyelids falling down unwillingly, her weary steps and lethargic air don’t fit in the picture. This taciturn behavior is not hers, fragile and defensive, too aware and too gone at the same time. 

‘Have you eaten something?’, she asks in a monotone tone. She always asks me things like ‘how did you sleep?’, ‘how are you feeling?’, or ‘have you eaten something?’ with a big smile on her face, attentive on my answer and how she can fix it if any of them is a negative, but this time the honest concern can’t be felt in her words. She’s empty. Gone. I nod, lying to her because she doesn’t have to worry about me now. She doesn’t buy it, of course, but doesn’t insist. ‘Do you want some coffee?’, she’s not looking at me.

‘Yes, please’, I answer in the same mechanical way, studying her face. I sit on the chair that allows me to track her every move. She prepares the coffee like she always does; black for her and sweet for me. Even though her figure is gaunt, there’s still that organic essence on her that spreads a peaceful wave through my body. She hands me a cup and I take it, trying to make her look back at me, but she doesn’t listen to my quiet call. She sits in front of me, gazing off into the distance, drained and lifeless. I’ve been learning how to read her, how to translate the slight changes in her expressions, and while most of the times I’m sure I know more about her than she knows about me, there are moments like this when I just guess. Her thoughts and memories, her feelings and fears are kept a secret behind the brightest of her smiles. I’m getting anxious, I want to ask her what happened, why is she acting like this, distant and hurt, and who do I have to kill to make her feel happy again. I shake my head at the last thought; we don’t need me to get all bloodthirsty right now. Robin needs me, she needs me to bring her back. I clear my throat, making her jump, her eyes go wide, panicked, but when she looks at me, for the first time since she opened her door, she relaxes. ‘I thought that…’, my voice fades, hesitant about my approach, ‘…if it’s okay, we could try again and watch something else’, my suggestion is poor, and inappropriate, but it’s the only option that comes to my mind. Her shoulders stiffen and her face constricts, uncomfortable.

‘I– I don’t know’, her voice is throaty and tired, her eyes looking pass me. Realization hits me right then and there, making me feel horrified at myself; I’m forcing her. Maybe she wanted to be alone and sleep, maybe she didn’t want to see me in the first place because she’s done with my goddamned, violent mood-swings, and here I am, making her prepare me coffee and attend me like a careless bastard. What the hell, Barnes? Give her the space and time you claimed to need last night, be sensible and understanding as she is. Let her breathe, give her peace. 

‘Okay’, I sigh, feeling pathetic, and I stand up. ‘I’ll see you later’, I half-smile to no one, turning towards the door. I walk steadily as my insides are crumbling; I don’t want to leave her like this, I want to make sure she’s going to be fine, but I have to put some distance between us in order to fix whatever is bothering her. I could always come back tomorrow and check on her. Yes, that would be better than harassing her with my presence.

‘Don’t go, please’, her pleading voice stops me half my way, sticking me down on the floor. ‘Don’t leave me’, my stomach twists. I turn to look at her, and the mere sight of her makes something crack inside my chest; watery eyes and quivering lips. Broken and begging. She’s not mad at me, I know that now, but she’s troubled by something, and the uncertainty increases my earning to ask, or at least to beat the hell out from the responsible of her distress, even if that moron ends up being me. I ultimately nod, and she gives me her tiniest smile, the light not reaching her eyes. ‘What would you like to watch?’. Crap.

‘I– you– you told me a few days ago that there’s a movie you wanted me to see’, I rummage on the memories of our movie nights and conversations, but the damned title slips through my fingers before I can grab a hold on it. Robin tilts her head a little, expectant and curious. I’m on the verge of madness, my waste of a brain doesn’t cooperate with me and obliges me to give up. ‘Was it Annie? Amanda?’, I frown, guessing and trying to get the right name. ‘Ann-Marie?’, I make a last effort and that seems to help her find out which one I’m talking about.

‘Amèlie!’, she finally exclaims, regaining some light on her face. I can tell she’s fond of that movie for the way the corner of her lips is curved upwards, glad to remember. ‘Is it that one?’

‘I think so’, I look down, not fully certain of the name and still doubtful of this idea I came up with. ‘Can we watch it?’, I ask her cautiously. 

‘Yes, it’s a good one. I think you might like it very much’, there’s not just presumption, but authentic hope. She stands up and walks towards the TV to get everything ready while I remain static on my place. I consider going to my apartment and bring the bag of Chipsfrisch I bought yesterday on my way back to the building, maybe go and buy those ham and cheese sandwiches she likes, but before I decide anything, my eyes spot a big box on the middle of the table. I frown.

‘What’s this?’, Robin turns to see and I point out the box. Her face goes serious and dark, and I regret opening my mouth to ask something that doesn’t concern me.

‘It’s medicine, for my asthma’, she explains with disdain. I look at her, perplexed. She finally has something to help her overcome those horrible attacks she has, something that will improve her health, and she dismisses it like it wasn’t important? I’m starting to think that I’m understanding her a little less. I nod and sigh, confusion printed on my face as I stand up.

‘I’ll be right back’, I say and rush to my apartment, not closing the door completely behind me. My door is not properly closed thanks to the kicking way I opened it yesterday. I need to fix it before someone besides Robin notices. I’m of about to grab the chips when I think better and head outside, then downstairs. Images hang on the walls of the staircase as I make my way to the ground floor; Robin smiling, Robin laughing, Robin worried. Worried about me. I know should go and let her have the life she had before meeting me, peaceful and stable, but I can’t stop the smile that creeps up my face as I picture my own life with her, how much I’ve learnt of and from her. How to be patient and careful, how to change cassettes and tapes, what’s the best way to eat chicken, which is shwarma, according to her, and above all, how to feel safe, how to stop running and take a breath. _Robin_. She’s like a rainbow: red bravery, yellow giggles, green cleverness and purple wit, all of that put together in an approximately 5’4 handle of colors. A goddamned stubborn and goddamned adorable handle of colors, may I say. I’m already outside our building, heading towards the diner around the corner to buy ham and cheese sandwiches for us. Robin loves those sandwiches. _Robin_. She doesn’t like sweet things, sunny days or waking up before the alarm rings. She doesn’t know what her favorite movie is because she likes so many, and the same could be said about music. She loves dancing, but she doesn’t know how to dance, she likes to take pictures of the sky and the city, mostly the sky, and writes something on the reverse of them; she never shows me what. She likes stars and purple, cats and yellow roses. She drinks cold milk in the morning and takes hot showers at night. She only has five pairs of shoes: her on-and-off muddy boots, black shoes, purple slippers, sandals, and those yellow shoes. Converse, she said they were called. I sigh when I’m in front of the staircase again. With every step I take, my pace increases, impatient to feel again that peace she gives me, and every floor left behind soothes the hurry to be back to her. I make a stop on my place to grab the bag of Chipsfrisch and immediately head towards her apartment. I walk inside to find her waiting for me.

‘What took you so long?’, she’s sitting on her mattress, her cushions and pillows piled where I always sit, next to her. She sounds nervous. She thought I wasn’t going to come back. 

‘Brought ham and cheese’. I lift the bag full of food boxes. Her face lights up immediately. ‘And chips’, for once, I hit the right target. Her smile is transparent, honest and happy. She goes back to her normal smiling self; she came back too. I walk towards her and sit on my habitual spot, placing the bags and down and handing her a food box.

‘Thank you, Bucky’, I nod. She hasn’t stop looking at me, warmly, caressing me with her eyes, and I can’t stop looking back at her, I just can’t stop. Her messy blue hair, a little longer and brighter now, the fresh and tender curves of her lips and face, her tired, sad eyes. Moonlight skin with ruined makeup. Lovely. ‘Bucky?’, her voice breaks my line of thoughts, and I blink a few times. ‘It’s about to start’, she’s blushing. Shit. We turn to look at the monitor at the same time, her flustered expressions lingering in my mind. Lovely.

The movie is French. A happy melody starts to play, followed by a narrator saying random things about the weather, a fly, glasses, some dead guy called Eugène Colère, sperms, and finally a woman _giving birth_ to this girl , Amèlie. ‘Le fabuleux destin d’Amèlie Poulain’. What the hell. It never has bothered me something that Robin has showed me, except for ‘Life is beautiful’, and I hope this doesn’t end up the same way, but this movie is coming to be different from the ones I’ve seen since the very beginning. I’m curious, but reserved. These emotions vanish when the story goes on. I find it funny, I must confess, the little girl is quite clever and sweet, mischievous as well. Amèlie leaves her parents house when she’s old enough and goes to live by her own in the city, finding a job and a nice apartment. She helps people there. That’s what she does throughout the movie. She helps her coworkers, her neighbors, her father, even strangers. She’s a heroine, a valiant girl fighting for justice, defending the weak, spreading hope in the world; but she’s a lonely heroine, too. Amèlie meets Nino Quincampoix, and for that moment on, I’m totally immersed by the way she feels towards him. She likes him, she tricks him, plays him pranks, she melts for him, literally. But she avoids meeting him. My chest is a roller-coaster of emotions, I go from amused to frustrated, from thrilled to disappointed. They never meet goddamnit it! Amèlie is not that brave, she’s afraid to risk and lose, she’s afraid to live. A part of me thinks of Robin when I look at Amèlie; they have similar noses, but Robin’s is more upturned, they have the same brown eyes and creamy skin. Maybe if Robin didn’t dye her hair, they would have the same hair color, and I wonder what’s her real hair color. Blonde, redhead, black, brunette, but I can’t imagine her without that bright, blue hair of hers. So silky and wavy. I shake my head, focusing on the images on the TV again. I let out a sigh of relief when Amèlie has the courage to meet with Nino. She dares to love him. The last scenes of them together, passing by the streets on Nino’s bike, fills my heart of happiness. I feel happy for them. When the movie ends, I turn to look at Robin just to find her in a deep, peaceful sleep. Her lips are parted, her breathing is soft and steady, her body is curled into a ball like a small cat, and her face is totally calm. She looks beyond fatigued. I clench my jaw, hating seeing her like this; I’m tired of doing this to her, to be a burden, a life-sucker. I’m sick of this need that makes me hate myself for being so selfish and weak and not leaving this place once and for all. I’m consuming her life, and I can’t stop. I’m draining her energy, taking everything from her, and she’s impossibly forbearing with me. She offers me shelter, food, smiles, safety, and every time she feels she’s starting to lose me, and if she does, she brings me back.

The anger raises up my body, making it impossible for me to stay here longer. I kneel in front of the TV and aim to put the movie back on its box, but I don’t know how to pull it out of the player, so I push the ‘stop’ button and turn off the monitor. Before I stand up, I notice that Robin has her shoes still on, her yellow Converse. I warm smile creeps on my face; she’s adorable. I grunt at my own thoughts and crawl towards her, taking her shoes off and covering her with the lilac comforter because it’s going to be cold soon. I stand up quickly and walk out of her apartment, closing the door behind me. I stand there, motionless, for awhile, thinking of what happened yesterday, last night, this morning, a few hours ago, and then what’s been happening these two months we’ve been closer to each other. How much I’ve taken from her and how much I’ve given her, and the contrast is scarily unfair. I enter my apartment, throwing myself on the bed, face downward, legs and arms spread over the smooth surface. I’m exhausted, and I didn’t notice it until now. I let my eyes get closed and my body relaxes as I dive into slumber.

The sun hasn’t risen when I wake up. It’s too cold to be morning, but I can’t make myself go back to sleep. I face the ceiling, wondering of what will I do today, where will I go until I hear Robin closing her door and rushing downstairs. She’ll have an asthma attack if she doesn’t slow down. I stand up, stretching my arms and legs, heading towards the bathroom to take a shower. I damn well need one. The steaming water relaxes even more my muscles, the tension on my shoulders disappears and my skin feels fresher. ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ plays inside my head while I dry and put on clean clothes, and I mentally bless Robin for showing me who Elvis Presley is. I enjoy listening to him as much as The Rolling Stones and Queen. Instead of going to work out at the abandoned train yard as usual, I decide to take a long walk and spend some time at the Cișmigiu Lake, a place I’ve been going more often lately. Working out, spending my energy carrying the rusted fright cars, lifting heavy pieces of iron, and running along the railroad track has helped me to ease down the anxiety and it allows my mind to rest at night. After I threw Robin’s chair through the air, I learnt that physical exhaustion was the answer to prevent those stupid reactions from repeating because my body doesn’t hold back too much energy. I bind up my metal arm, another precaution I take to elude as many questions as I can from her, assuring that it won’t move too much and let the metallic noises be heard, besides, that makes it less solid and cold. I put on my jacket, gloves and cap, walking out of my apartment and heading outside the building. 

The city hasn’t change since I arrived, my sweeps are constant, but not that frequent anymore, and there hasn’t been any sing of threat. Although I’m too far from those who want me back, those who want to kill me, the looming fact that they will only encourages me to be always ready, ready to run, hide, or fight, whatever it’s necessary to be free. My feet have been walking directionless, and when I lift my head to see where I am, I realize I’ve barely made it to the next block. I’m standing in front of the entrance of the landfill I got some of my furniture stuff from, there are more things now, piled in tall mountains of belongings dismissed by people, unaware that many are still useful. I should head to the lake before it gets crowded; there are a lot of people by midday. As I turn, my eyes catch the glimpse of a blue spot among the grey ocean of trash, the bright color carries me inside the landfill and when I’m close enough, I recognize the parts of an old bicycle. I hurry towards it and remove everything above it until it’s out of the mass of garbage; it’s a blue bicycle. It’s dirty and has some scratches, but it’s actually in very good conditions, I bet it hasn’t been here longer than a week. The first thing that comes to mind is how much Robin would like it because it’s so blue and so her, it reminds of Amèlie and Nino, even of Guido, it has a basket and a carrier, and it would help her go to work without taking the bus. She once told me it was unnecessary, that she could perfectly save the money, but it would take her longer to walk ten blocks than taking the bus and make fifteen minutes and be on time. Also, walking a long distance makes her breathing agitated, not nearly an asthma attack, but she would prefer to avoid such discomfort. This might benefit her; this might make her happy. I don’t hesitate for one more second, I climb on the bicycle and start to move, pedaling out the landfill. I need to check if the breaks, the chains and the steering wheel work properly so Robin could ride without worrying something going wrong with it. As I hoped, the bicycle is in perfect conditions, I just have to clean it and repair some issues it has. On my way back to our building, I stop at a store that seems to have right materials.

‘ _Welcome, may I help you, sir?_ ’, an old man greets me from behind a desk. He smiles politely at me and stand up.

‘ _Yes, I’m looking for things to repair my bicycle_ ’, I explain to him and he nods.

‘ _We have plenty of accessories, please, let me suggest you a few_ ’, he guides me through the full shelves, and I follow him with precaution. I end up buying a chain lubricant, a lock-chain, varnish and a helmet, anything it’s required to ensure her even more protection. I rush back to our building and I park on the lot that is supposed to be assigned to my car, if I had one, and head to look for a cloth, a bucket, water and soap to clean the bicycle. Maybe I should bring the boombox too.

I’m back down in record time, afraid that some rabble could steal Robin’s bicycle despite I secured it with the chain, but it’s right there where I left it, and even though I carry the bucket full of water and soap in one hand and the boombox and a bag with my purchases in the other, I made if safe and sound without throwing anything on the way. I kneel in front of the bicycle and put down my stuff at each of my sides. Queen’s greatest hits is the best company while I work, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ fills the air and the music relaxes my body until I end up humming the melody. I chuckle at the memory of Robin attempting to dance with ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ when we were on the rooftop not long ago. She made me laugh. I wash the metal, removing all the mud I see, every stain of unknown substances, I apply the varnish and lubricant when it’s dry and fix a few problems with the chains and twisted wires of the breaks. Suddenly I’m really hungry, then I remember that I didn’t have breakfast, but this need to be done before Robin comes back home, so I keep working. Truth is, I don’t know much of this, nothing at all, but the kind man of the store gave me a few advices and a guide that tells me the name of the parts the bicycle has and their characteristics, and that gives me huge hand. When I’m finished, I secure the bicycle with the lock-chain again and go back to my apartment to leave my tools and the boombox, concluding that I’ll have pizza for diner today. Robin’s been telling me about a place near our building that has a wonderful peperoni pizza, she said it was next to the Chinese restaurant. I find the place rather easy and ask for takeaway. It seems that besides the music and movies, I’m borrowing her food sources too; the thought makes me smile from ear to ear. When my order is delivered, I head back to the building and sit at a bench near the threshold, where we ate sandwiches for the first time. That was around three months ago, when we were still strangers, when we didn’t trust each other, and I realize how much we’ve done together, not just the movie night thing, or the random evenings we spend at the rooftop, but the understanding and the respect between us now. It’s been like a lifetime, a lifetime with her. I finish eating by the time the sky is turning dark orange and a guy who lives three floors down from us walks into the building.

‘ _Excuse me, sir_ ’, he stops to look at me. ‘ _Could you tell me what time is it?_ ’, I ask him.

‘ _Fifteen minutes to seven_ ’, he says in a well-mannered tone.

‘ _Thank you_ ’, he nods and turns around. Robin is going to be here in one hour and a half, more or less. I took me more time than I thought to get the bicycle ready, but it was a productive way to spend the day. I wait for her there because otherwise I won’t be able to see her coming and I want to avoid making her go upstairs, and then downstairs, to show her the bicycle. The orange light coming from outside turns bluer, and then darker and darker until is midnight blue. I’m getting anxious, I can feel my flesh getting sweaty, and my eyes turn to the entrance every single time someone walks in. Shit. Why is she taking so long? I bet it’s been more than the hour and a half, I should probably look for her and make sure she’s fine. What if she got one of her asthma attacks on her way back and got hurt? What if…? I shake my head to clear my mind, but it’s impossible to stop thinking about the things, bad ones, that could explain her delay. My eyes wonder over the whole area and I have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from shouting out of frustration. Jesus, Barnes, hold it together, man. She’s fine and she’s… here. Her uniformed figure just walked in the building, those now clean boots tripping further to the staircase. She doesn’t look as tired as yesterday, she has bright new makeup on and her hair is combed nicely in what she once called a bun. A Queen’s song plays from the background of my head. _There goes my baby_. Sad eyes and moonlight skin. _She knows how to rock 'n' roll_. Blue hair and purple nails. _She drives me crazy_. Sunset smiles and broken wings. _Robin_.

‘Robin’, I call after her from the bench, she turns around to look for who’s speaking to her, and when she spots me, she smiles in a way that takes my breath away.

‘Hey, Bucky’, she greets me, her eyes telling me she’s honestly glad to see me. I stand up, walking slowly towards her, and a sudden rush of excitement makes me smile again and pick up the pace. ‘What are you doing there?’, she asks, bow-legged and blushed. Adorable as hell.

‘I have to show you something’, I say quickly, not answering her question. She looks a little confused by my excitement, and I don’t blame her; this is not a usual behavior of me. But I can’t help it, just imagining the wide smile she’ll have on her face when she sees the bicycle, how happy she will be, it warms my insides and gives me peace. I can’t wait.

‘Okay, lead the way’, I nod and head to the parking area. We walk side to side in silence, the fresh air slips through the short distance between us and I have the urge to take her hand and run. Yes, and she will end up having an asthma attack. I’m very much screwed up. ‘I’m sorry about falling asleep yesterday’, she says in a low and apologizing tone. ‘I was–’.

‘Tired’, I interrupt her, finishing her sentence and giving her a tiny smile in the same apologizing way. ‘I’m sorry about that’, she doesn’t need to ask what I mean, because she knows what I’m talking about. I look down, ashamed, and think of something that could clear up the tense atmosphere that flowed. ‘I liked the movies’, I comment in a casual, but frank tone. She frowns. ‘Life is beautiful and Amèlie’, I explain, and a wide smiles light up her face. No the brightest of all, but definitely happy.

‘I love both of them’, she agrees. ‘Especially Amèlie’, she smiles to herself now, and I can see why. She’s aware of their alikeness.

‘I loved her too’. my heart skips a beat after I make that confession that implies a double meaning. I didn’t see that coming, neither did she, but she understood it; she’s as red as a tomato and I feel awfully embarrassed. Thankfully, we arrive to the parking lot just in time to save se from this awkward situation. We stop in front of the secured bicycle and I point out its direction with my hand, still troubled. ‘For you’. She turns her head to me, her brown eyes wide open, impossibly bigger. 

‘Is it a…?’, she babbles as if she can’t believe it, and her question it’s kind of silly, but I don’t care. I want her to smile.

‘It’s a bicycle, I saw it and thought you would like it’, my eyes search for a glimpse of happiness on her face. Please, Robin. Smile, smile for me. And she does, the brightest smile of hers, and she laughs too, tinkerbell mixed with spring breeze, pure and full of light. Stunning. ‘Do you like it?’, my anxiety in action.

‘Yes, I– I love it, but I– I can’t accept it just like that’, bot of our smiles fade away immediately, erased by her rejection, and my growing sadness. ‘You spent your money on this, I must pay you back’, she clarifies, noticing my disappointment. I rush to explain myself.

‘I didn’t, I just had to fix a few things so it would be safe… for you, so you can be like Amèlie, or Guido’, if I was nervous before, now I’m panicking. My face is too hot and my flesh hand is shaking. I’ve been bolder than any other time we’ve talked, I’ve seen her blush and get flustered by the way I look at her, and the things I say to her. What’s happening? She frowns, a concerned expression replacing the content one.

‘You stole it?’, she asks, her face showing real alarm that the answer could be ‘yes’.

‘No’, I look at her with a frown on my own, hurt by her deduction. ‘Found it, in a landfill’, I confess, almost sure she will be disgusted by it. ‘It was worth saving, I swear, I just had to clean it’, I try to justify my actions, but I’m too mortified. I sigh, a wave of sadness spreading over my chest. ‘If you want, I could get you a brand new one’, I offer as a last resort, anything to see her happy again.

‘No! I mean, no, please’, she hurries to soothe the wrong ideas she gave me. ‘This one is perfect, it’s… God, I– I really love it’, and then she smiles again. Softly, warmly. Hers.

‘Are you sure?’, I argue, my doubts tangible on my tone. ‘It’s not the best idea because I don’t know if that could cause you one of your asthma attacks, but I did know you didn’t like taking the bus and–’

‘Bucky, Bucky! It’s okay, I mean it, it’s wonderful’, she’s trying to convince me that she’s not lying, and I believe her, I trust her. I always do. ‘I don’t have to make a huge effort, I will be alright’, she assures me. Her voice is like a million of caresses, her eyes turn tender and her cheekbones are slightly pink. ‘Thank you’, and just like that, she hugs me. My body petrifies right there between her arms. Her face is buried on my chest, her head making it barely to the place under my chin and her tiny hands are linked on the small of my back, locking me up inside her embrace. I can feel the warm of her body pressed against mine, her hair smells like apple and coffee, and her heart beats slowly in contrast with the frenzy of my own. Without thinking, I surround her tiny and fragile figure with my flesh arm, afraid that she would feel cold if I use the metal one, and press my cheek against the top of her head. I close my eyes, feeling so happy and peaceful, too drowned in this intimate moment that all the voices, all the sounds around us go dead quiet. I take a deep breath, inhaling her scent, getting drunk with her serene nature. It’s like I’m holding a little bird on my hands, it’s delicate, but fierce and wild at the same time, a little robin. A rainbow robin. I know we’ve crossed the line, we’re no longer respecting the other’s personal space, we’re invading each other, and I don’t give a damn, I don’t care one bit because it feels like there’s a warm, gentle blue fire sparking between our bodies. It’s too beautiful, too strong, too noble. It’s hers, it’s all hers, and maybe is her the only truth that matters, not the nightmares, nor the ghosts or the two-faced memories, just her. She flushes against my chest, sending soft tremors through it, making us part and look away, nervous. I clear my throat and she steps back, giving me some space. ‘I– I brought chicken so we can make some shwarma’, her face turns enthusiastic and she picks up a shopping bag I didn’t notice she put down, and I chuckle. Robin loves food, no doubt of that. ‘I’ll teach you how to do it’, I look at her again, unable to shake the weightless feeling off my body, my bones are spongy and my head is spinning around the orbits of her eyes, like I’ve been knocked out or something. What the hell is happening?

‘That’s great’, I finally say, and she nods. We start to walk, closer than ever before, towards the inside of the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo! First of, HAPPY 4TH OF JULY to all American readers and writers!!!! wish you the best time, surrounded by your loved ones, friends and family. Be happy, above all :D 
> 
> This one is absolutely one of my favorites chapters until now, I truly enjoyed writing it and I put a lot of feelings that I hope you can share :) Please, leave comments, let me know your thoughts, and if you have questions, I will gladly answer them. Have a wonderful day and week! Love you! :D


	11. Hey Brother

It’s Saturday morning, a cold and rainy Saturday morning. My body refuses to come out of the bed, it’s cozy under the blankets and I have the day off, so there’s no logical reason that takes me out of there. Except that I have plans for today, plans with Bucky. Well, I thought about bringing the idea of spending the day at the Cișmigiu Lake before it’s too cold to see the birds around. We’re approaching the coldest months and the temperature has decreased a considerable amount of degrees, at least to hang out in a place basically weathering. I wanted to change our routine a little bit and the idea popped out in my mind yesterday night after he went back to his apartment. We watched ‘Moulin Rouge’, and to my honest surprise, he didn’t like it very much, he didn’t to explain me why, and when I asked him directly, he just said: _‘it wasn’t what I expected’_. I’m determined to find out the truth behind his plain verdict, I’ll make it my personal mission today. I chuckle at myself and a broad smile appears on my face as the images of him flash behind my eyelids; his eyes, looking at me in a way that makes me blush and then punch him in the face for making me do it, his lips, smiling, talking to me, telling me his favorite ice-cream flavor is cookies and cream because of me, because I showed that to him, and his voice, making me ease off, like falling, flying into the bare daylight. He’s been careful and attentive with me, he’s always been (he carried me piggyback and bridal style, for Christ’s sake), but this time feels different, like he intuits something’s not right, and although he respects my silence, he tries to take away the affliction that surrounds me. I can see he’s tired, and I know he’s not sleeping in the building again, I’m worried for him too, and maybe some time outdoors will help him. I chuckle again at the memory of his excitement and nervousness the day he gave me the bicycle. I was shocked when he showed it to me, and knowing he repaired it for me made my heart swell and my stomach flutter. He acted selflessly, thinking I would like it, but most important, how could it helped me. Then I hugged him, and he hugged me back. It was the most intimate we’ve been, but the safest I’ve felt, when he surrounded my shoulders with his strong arm and rested his cheek on my head, right there against his chest, feeling him breathe, giving him warmth, showing him what I didn’t know how to tell him, I felt the happiest. I sigh, my chest rising and falling so heavy that it’s hard to breathe. 

A bitter taste that Liev and Irina’s visit left remains on my tongue, and what they told me about Alexander opened the crack on my heart that I thought was sealed. For a brief moment, I considered, I wanted to leave Bucharest and go back to tell him I’m sorry, that I forgive him and that I miss him every single day I’m far from home, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it; I promised to myself that I would never forget, that I would never forgive, and I ask myself if we really are responsible for a simple decision we took, even if we're not aware of its severity, when we’re too blind to realize the weight of our words, and too young to believe there’s no other choice. I’ve been denying myself the right to spare my faults, the guilt has become a curse, and we’re doomed to live in exile. But Liev and Irina found me, I don’t know how, I’ve thought of the reasons that could explain their sudden arrival and each one of them derange my mind and takes my sleep away. They must have started to look for me when Alexander’s illness went worse, they can easily hire a private investigator that would provide them with my location within weeks, besides it’s not likely they’ve known where I’ve been all this time… I feel a sharp jab on my back ribs, the air of my lungs comes out in a gruff gasp as realization sinks in my brain; They’ve known where I’ve been. I’ve been followed, hunted, marked. Exposed. A rush of panic push me off the bed and makes me stand up, felling dizzy, my body is too heavy and my senses seem to lose me in my own room. I manage to walk towards the bathroom, standing before the mirror and holding on the sink for support. I look at the reflection facing me, my whole life on rewind, it’s studying me with a perfect replica of my own eyes, but it’s a stranger, some dark and weary twin hiding secrets, truths and lies. Myself. I grunt, shaking my head. I don’t think it truly matters weather they’ve known or not, I can’t change the truth, I can’t change what I’ve done, what’s happened, I just have to keep living. Romania, Russia, USA, it doesn’t matter, none of that matters anymore because I have to get ready to go out. I wash my face, thanking the cold water for clearing my mind. I wonder how would he take the idea of hanging out in the lake, if he would accept to go and, if he does, what are we going to do there. We’ve always spent time in my apartment, the rooftop, and our balconies, but this is going to take place out of our comfort zone, and I must be ready to deal with any potential reaction from him, even a violent one. Once back in the room, I choose to wear thermal tights, a pinstripe loose batwing that I’m still figuring out if it’s a pajama or just a blouse, the huge, red wine sweater I bought for one euro in Germany, the best acquisition I’ve made, I must tell, a yellow raincoat because Zeus hasn’t allowed me to find one in other color, and my loyal, no-longer dirty boots. Coraline style, I’m totally ready to face mother nature. I brush my hair, refusing to fasten it on a ponytail given the cold weather, and just when I’m combing a few rebel strands, I hear two firm knocks at my door. I take a deep breath, encouraging me to walk towards the door, open it, greet him and tell him about my intentions. The worst thing that could happen is him refusing and ask me we stay, or we go out and he will end up throwing trees to people, or wipe out the ducks of the river. For some reason, I believe throwing trees to people it’s more likely to happen.

‘Robin?’, I hear him call and knock again. I jump a little, realizing that my procrastinator brain keeps me from moving, so I turn around and head towards the entry. I grab the doorknob and open the door without hesitating; his sky-blue eyes meet my brown ones, my heart rises up the speed of its beats and my chest is filling up with warm and peace and something else I still can’t recognize. He’s wearing his black beanie, his upper-half is well protected against the cold by two thick shirts and his gloved hands are inside the pockets of his black jeans. He looks so different from the guy I met I couple of moths ago, so terrified of even looking at me, barely standing talking to me, avoiding any kind of unnecessary contact, and the way he looks at me now, some place between mild and wistful, the way he says my name, a tender tone attached to his velvety voice, all of it electrifies my body, it makes the goosebumps rise in my arms and the air leaves my lungs in a deaf sigh.

‘Hey’, I greet and smile at him. ‘Come in’, I step aside and he walks in, his eyes stopped scanning my apartment a while ago, and it makes me happy that he’s able to trust the space surrounding him. He turns, facing me, waiting for me to say something. I close the door and wave him to sit. ‘Would you like some coffee?’, I ask him while he takes a sit on his usual spot and I walk towards him.

‘No, I’m fine, thank you’, he says and a tiny smile that’s been drawn on his face lately reappears to join his answer. I sit in front of him and he leans forward, ready to listen to whatever I’m going to say, but I keep quiet, I can’t bring myself to speak out the words. I’m nervous, I’m acting like a teenage girl talking to her crush for the first time, and the fact that I’m portraying us like a nonofficial couple just increases my self-consciousness and his eagerness. He quirks his eyebrow, a gesture he hasn't done before and I don't know what to make of that. I hope he's not angry for wasting his time, for making him come to sit in front of me. Lord Almighty, I really want to slap myself right now. ‘You said you wanted to tell me something’, his voice breaks my trance and his smile turns amused. I’m blushing, my face is burning, I should look like a bright red tomato. Jennifer Beals, give me the power.

‘I– I wanted to ask you, you know, if you’re comfortable with– with going out and spend the day s–somewhere else than here, or the rooftop’, my mediocre proposal makes me sink down on the chair, everything is spinning around me, and I get ready for a straight ‘no’. The silence envelops the distance between us for a moment, there’s no tension, just quietness and thinking. He purses his lips, the unmistakable sign that he’s doubtful, then he sighs, scratching the back of his neck, and looks at me. 

‘I– I don’t know if it’s good, safe…’, he whispers and looks down, matching the quiet and thoughtful atmosphere. My apprehension grows to hyperbolic level. I honestly don’t understand the seriousness of this circumstance, I don’t know what he’s thinking and why does it feel like it’s a big deal, he’s been out by himself, of course, but for reason this is not right for him and I have to know that I’m not asking too much from him. I want to make him feel good with this, not uncomfortable, much less afraid, but the growing need to know more about him, to know his reasons, thoughts, even feelings, so I can help him in other ways, is looming in my mind, urging me to be more radical about my decisions. He lifts his head and looks at me again with beseeching eyes. ‘Do _you_ want to go out?’, I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, I look down too and play with my fingers over my lap, embarrassed.

‘Yes, I mean, but only if you want and if it’s okay with you’, I mutter and look up to him. He narrows his eyes to study my expression, I’ve seen him doing this when something in particular demands his full attention in a movie, when he’s looking for the implications. He’s trying to fully understand what I’m asking him. I give up, maybe we’re not ready to change our routine, maybe he’s right and it’s not safe, and knowing why is not worth a fight between us. I sigh and shrug, turning to look at the window and the gray sky framed by it. ‘It's okay, besides, it’s cold outside and–’

‘Where are we going?’, he ignores my last comment, and I turn to look back at him. I frown, confused by his just-tell-me-already kind of question. His eyes are uncertain, but no longer reluctant, the corner of his mouth has a soft curve, his face untangles its doubt and his body softens when I start to decode the true meaning of his words. 

‘The Cișmigiu Lake’, I say more enthusiastically our destination, an answer that takes him aback. He knows the place, I can tell by the way his eyes sparkled a little when I mentioned it, and what’s more important, he seems to like it. I silently bless my lucky strike, and tell myself I shouldn’t have chicken-out like that because it’s him, it’s just him, me, us. His smile grows, showing his white and perfect teeth, the light reaches his eyes, they’re shining bright like two big diamonds, and I would do everything, fight an army of orcs, turn to the dark side of The Force, admit that I like to sing ‘U Can’t Touch This’ in the shower, even eat broccoli, anything, to see him smile at me the way he does.

‘Perfect’, he says, and I’m sure I stopped breathing a few seconds ago because now I’m feeling dizzy. He stands up, excited and happy, and turns his head a little, gesturing the door, his smile never leaving his face. ‘C’mon’, he says and I practically jump off the chair, a wide smile mimicking his own while my hands are closed into fist at each side of my chest. Someone could have said I was a Japanese cartoon, like that Sakura girl I used to watch.

‘Really?’, I ask enthusiastically and he laughs, _laughs_. Oh, my God.

‘Yes’, he reassures me and starts to walk towards the door, stopping and turning. ‘You’re already dressed up’, he says in a mocking voice. I guess he knew I was up to something. 

‘Oh, this?’, I look down to my clothes, my raincoat giving away an intention I thought I was subtle about. I giggle and lift up my face. ‘Well, yeah, I had some hope’, I confess to him and he chuckles, shaking his head, amused. He’s so relaxed, and so open to this new activity. He had his doubts, but he trusts me, and he knows I’d never forced him to do anything he wouldn’t want. ‘Let’s go’, I head towards his direction, but stop when I remember something I meant to show him today. ‘Oh, I almost forget!’, I turn, heading to the small closet I bought a couple of weeks ago and take out a box. He frowns. ‘I got you a helmet’, I explain and lift the box, walking back to him. His face softens and his eyes turn surprised, unable to tear themselves from his present. ‘We’re going on my bicycle, so I thought that you should have the proper safety equipment’, I declare, meaning every word I say. I hand him the box and he takes it with shaky hands. He’s stunned. He opens it and takes out the black helmet, it’s not stylish or professional, it’s simple, but suitable to get its job done. Protect him. He looks at me, and his eyes are shining again, this time a tender light warming his insides.

‘Th– Thank you’, he says and smiles, his tiny smile that shouts no more than gratitude. I nod, taking along my small purse and we walk out my apartment. He grabs a dark blue rain-jacket from somewhere near the entrance of his apartment, putting it on before we head downstairs. Our way to the parking lot remains quiet, out footsteps and easy breathings are the only sounds that join us. I’ve been feeling so much better since I started taking the asthma medicine, my respiratory system is grateful for that, and my breathing isn’t fatigued anymore, I don’t get agitated, at least not easily. I’m able to walk up the stairs without stopping to rest, I can do some jog and not throwing up my lungs in the process, and I can go to work on my bicycle and save the money for the bus. I’m careful, though, I don’t press too many buttons at once, I want to stabilize my health and feel even better, and I hate to recognize that _they_ were right, I needed it. We arrived to the lot where my bicycle is well secured with its chain, I take out the key, unlock the steering wheel and deposite it in the basket. I put on my helmet, then turn to ask Bucky if he’s ready, but he's still trying to clasp his own helmet, unsuccessfully. The straps aren’t long enough and the edges can’t reach each other. I step closer and he looks at me, embarrassed.

‘May I?’, I ask him, trying to be as gentle as I can, avoiding making feel bad. ‘Take off your beanie, please’, he takes off the helmet and then the beanie, handing me the first. I adjust the straps so it fits him appropriately, when I’m done, he clasps his helmet, and tries several positions until he’s sure it’s comfortable enough. ‘Better?’, I want to make sure he’s fine and he nods, less ashamed now. ‘Do you want to ride it?’, I point out the bicycle with my thumb. He purses his lips, again, and hesitates for a few seconds before clearing his throat and grabbing the steering wheel with fear. I feel stupid when I realize that he might not know how to do it, but when I’m about to apologize and tell him that I’ll ride it, his eyes fill with courage and his grip grows stronger.

‘Okay’, he says and climbs on the bicycle, determined and focused. He turns the vehicle towards me, both of his hands firmly clutching the handles and his feet deep grounded on the floor. I climb carefully, leaving my feet down too so he doesn’t struggle with the balance of the weight he has to keep to prevent us from falling. Once I’m up, he nods and turns his head slightly. ‘Hold on to me’, he whispers and I surround his torso, gripping his jacket and pressing my front to his back. Our clothes separate our fast-beating hearts, but I can feel his muscles stiffen, then relaxing when they get used to my arms around him. Just when we’re accommodated and ready, he starts to pedal out of the parking lot.

He starts slowly, being careful and looking both sides of the street before crossing to the other side because we’re going in the opposite direction. We’re not in a hurry, we don’t need to risk our safety, but I can’t deny the rush of adrenaline flowing through my veins when Bucky increases the speed. The city becomes a set of shapeless figures within seconds, there are millions of colors drowning my eyes inside their depth, we’re traveling through flashing buildings, passing by all the places we may have been once or twice, but they’re too fuzzy that they’ve become a massive painting that mingles its shades with our own colors. We’re too fast, like a keen lightning among the blurry clouds, no one can reach to us, no one can outrun us. We’re leaving them behind, out of time and space, we’re running far away from them, flying higher than ever before. The air is no longer a cold and soft breeze, it’s a gust of wind that feels like a hundred of needle pricks against my skin, not sharp enough to hurt, but they leave a burning sensation on my face. There’s no freedom, just free will and impetus, I give myself entirely to this wild feeling growing in my chest, I’m breathing fierceness, and my blood can set the world on fire. I let out a laugh, the purest and most honest one, that makes Bucky turn quickly and laugh back, the vibrations of his chest sending shivers to mine, his joy duplicating itself through the chimes of his laugh and his happiness weaving with the shrill air. There are sparkles around us, everything is glowing, like stars dying in our way, shooting stars passing by, suns and planets with different sizes and colors, and we’re the ones who can see them, the first ones to discover them all. It’s like a galaxy, it’s like magic. The rush is replaced by soothing waves of harmony extending through my body, from my head to my feet, and I’m not just supporting on him, I’m holding onto him, hugging him, bringing him impossibly closer because I can’t get enough of his warm, strong body against mine. I breathe him in, burying my face on his back, and he sighs, a deep, intimate sigh that spreads his chest and loosens my grip on him, but it doesn’t tear apart our embrace, it binds our hearts and souls, and I sigh, just as deep and intimate, just as close and peaceful. He slows down the speed when we start to approach the gardens. The moment disappeared as fast as it flowed, but the thrill keeps running through my veins. I look around, this place is more colorful in spring, but right now it looks like a picture from and old European forest, full of dark-green and brown shadows, gloomy and sublime. We look for a good place where we can walk and look at the birds, there aren’t many because of the weather, but the few ones are near the water. When we stop, I climb down first and then Bucky, once we’re on firm ground, he takes off his helmet and I can see a light blush on his cheeks, but I can’t tell if it’s because of the cold air, or something else. 

‘That was fun’, he says with a lopsided smile. I nod, taking off my helmet. We put both of them on the basket and Bucky hold the bicycle while we walk, still looking for a good place we can settle in. I don’t want to ask him how much time he spends here, his favorites places or what he likes the most about the lake, I let it go naturally because I don’t want to ruin anything. We walk in silence for a brief moment, there aren’t many persons around us, most of them are far ahead of us or behind, they wouldn’t hear us if we speak. It makes Bucky feel more confident, there’s no pressure from curious eyes, nor unrequired ears, we’re almost all alone, like back in our building, back home. The next question that comes from my mouth isn’t crossing any line, I hope. Oh, God. I pray I don’t trigger anything. 

‘So’, I start, making him turn to me. ‘Why exactly didn’t you like ‘Moulin Rouge’?’, my voice sounds shy, and he frowns. 

‘The ending, I suppose’, he looks down, studying the floor for a while and then looking back at me, his tiny smile reclaiming his lips once again. ‘Their story it’s unfair’, he shrugs. ‘A writer falling in love with a prostitute, they went through everything, fighting for being together just to lose everything’, he sounds honestly disappointed, and his answer surprises me. It’s one of the longest, he’s still not much of a talker, but there are times when I hit in the right mark and I’m able to see him more cheerful and responsive. ‘It was different from what I’ve… from– from what it’s to be expected and I didn’t feel it was right’, he’s struggling to explain his thoughts to me, but I’m glad he’s trying. ‘They deserved better’, he concludes.

‘That’s the whole point’, he frowns again at my words, looking at me with both interest and confusion. ‘It’s sacrifice’, I say in a simple tone, because it really is that simple to me. ‘Satine sacrifices her own happiness with Christian, her chance to be have a life and be loved to save the only thing she’s known as her home, and her family, and Christian’s sacrifice is her, he wanted so desperately to find love that, when he does, he loses it’, he huffs and looks at the long aisle in front of us.

‘It doesn’t make sense’, I almost giggle at his displeased expression and angry tone.

‘I know, but those kind of things never make sense, I guess’, I shrug because I don’t claim to have the right answer. It’s a heartbreaking story, it’s just what I see, what I think is the reason it happened that way. His eyes search for mine, and I let them find me. He’s trying to understand what I mean, why I said that.

‘What things?’, he asks.

‘Love’, I whisper, almost too low that I’m sure he struggled to hear it, but he did, and he looks away, somewhat nervous. The word tastes peculiar, it’s not unfamiliar, nor unpleasant, it’s rather a yearning word that carries many other minor words and meanings. Love. Love like a pure and true expression of one's soul, like two persons inspiring each other to live, caring and fighting for the other, protecting, forgiving, compassionate. Love. Family love, like a brother, a father, a mother, warm Christmas and New Year’s hugs, birthday presents and familiar smiles. Love. Love like Satine and Christian’s. Desire. Passion. Suspicion. Jealousy. Anger. Betrayal. Love. A distant feeling, a corroded memory of something I can’t remember living, and a clouded belief of what would it be, what it means, what it is.

‘There’s a lot of passion’, I hear Bucky’s voice, but I don’t register his words, not until he adds: ‘Some scenes were kinda intense’, I look at him, and he seems quite flustered. I know what’s he talking about, and it surprises me that he’s bringing up the subject after all this time given that other movies have been more elaborated on it, and even though the question has popped on my mind before, I’m afraid I won’t approach it accurately.

‘Did they make you feel uncomfortable?’, the very question, subtler than I thought it would be, comes out from my mouth so abruptly that I curse myself. Why am I always letting my hasty tongue get me in troubles?

‘No, it’s not disturbing, but I– I’m not used to see them, like the nudes and sex scenes’, his cheeks turn red, he looks like a red-hot tomato, just like me when at times of shameless curiosity or exposure. ‘It’s weird’, I feel you, my friend. ‘I liked the songs, there’s one of Queen, isn’t it?’, the twist on the conversation saves us from an awkward moment. Thanks, God.

‘You recognized it!’, I exclaim and he smiles. ‘The Show Must Go On’, there are songs from T. Rex, Elton John, David Bowie, Madonna and Nirvana too’, suddenly I’m terrified because he doesn’t know them. We’ve only seen a few movies, but there are a lot left, very good ones that he can watch without any potential bad reactions, and there’s a lot of music he would like, bands and singers we can listen to while we eat, or while we talk and spend the evening at the rooftop. ‘God, we’ve plenty of ground to cover’, I sigh, foreshadowing our next Friday nights and dinners.

‘There’s plenty of time’, he says in a comforting tone. ‘I like the dancing too, it’s great’, he's not letting die our chat.

‘Yeah, the choreographies are _spectacular, spectacular_!’, he chuckles when I parodist Harold’s announcement of the improvised plot from the movie, getting my reference. We settle on a silent moment, but it’s just for barely a minute when I decide it’s my time to contribute and say something, and maybe a little spoiling will do. ‘I think you might be ready for ‘Back to the Future’ and Chuck Berry’, his face is totally puzzled, panicked at not knowing what I refer to. My smile turns teaser, but I hate seeing him confused, so I clear up the landscape. ‘It’s a movie where people can travel through time’, he calms down, paying full attention to me. ‘Do you remember Beetlejuice’s effects?’, he nods. ‘Well, this one has similar effects’, he seems to understand, but he frowns at the advent of a new doubt.

‘Are there dead people and ghosts too?’, his tone denotes excitement, and I can’t blame him. I must confess I wasn’t enjoying the movie back then, but his stunned expressions and marveling eyes. He said it was amazing how they managed to do all those things in a movie, how they make people look that way, make them fly and be smaller than a finger. He was awestruck, but he also looked sad that night, like he felt sorry for himself for not knowing these things already, almost like he missed them, and he was rediscovering a new, brighter world. 

‘Not really, but it’s not like the other ones in which they don’t need to add much stuff’, I say before he realizes I was gone for a second, lost in the memory of him again.

‘What about Chuck Berry?’, he asks about the other name I mentioned.

‘He’s the good old rock and roll master, believe me’, there’s a hidden promise on my voice, and he nods, trusting my words. ‘I hope you like him, as much as I do’, I smile, and he sends back in a teasing one.

‘As much as The Rolling Stones?’, his tone is challenging, playful, and his eyebrows are rising in expectation.

‘I wouldn’t go that far’, I accept and we both let out a chortle. ‘But, yeah, maybe’, my last comment fades away as we enter the heart of the lake. I didn’t realize we made it that fast, some ducks are walking near the edge of the water and there are a couple of boats with two or three people rowing towards the gardens. We stop on a bench at the entrance of the great bridge, the bigger and larger one that’s made of stone, Bucky lays the bicycle on a tree and I sit down, but he sits on the damp grass instead, not minding to get dirty, and looks at the lake. There’s no need to start a new conversation, we’re comfortably sharing the same space, our serene atmosphere isn’t perceived by anyone because we’re far enough to remain undisturbed. The sounds of tweeting birds, the branches of the trees being moved by the wind, dancing in a wavy tempo, the tranquil water, waving softly against the borders fills my insides with an unknown sensation, something more powerful than peace and deeper than safety. It’s stronger, but tenderer at the same time, endearing, like a caressing breeze mixed with a gentle fire, and it’s because he’s here, one meter away from me and feeling like he’s right beside me. I can’t stop looking at him, it has become a craze, a brazen obsession I have no control over. A sad melody whispers from an empty background, a song I’ve heard not long ago, yet it's playing from a different world right behind us. ' _There was a boy, a very strange, enchanted boy_ '. His face is calm, his crystal clear, blue eyes are gazing off into the distance, so aloof and unsullied. ' _They say he wandered very far, very far, over land and sea_ '. He’s breathing naturally, his body isn’t tensed, no longer on-guard, uptight, ready, and the sight of him saddens me because it’s not always lake this, and I don’t know how to change that. ' _A little shy, and sad of eyes, but very wise was he_ '. He never seems no realize how bright he is, his smile twinkles like falling shooting-stars and his laugh evokes the most beautiful song that can be heard by human ears. He’s made of sunrays. ' _And then one day, a magic day he passed my way_ '. I can’t believe he’s the same man that turns into a frightened, panicked spirit that could tear down a whole room with his bare hands. He’s that strong, that powerful. ' _And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me'..._ But he’s so kind, so caring and generous. He’s showed a honest concern for me every time he saw I was hurting, the way he moves around me, how delicate his hands turn when he touches me, how lovingly his eyes caress my face when he looks at me. ' _The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love_ '. He’s beautiful, he’s the sun, the brightest star of all, but his fire doesn’t burn me, it can’t burn me because I have the same embracing fire growing in my heart and soul. ' _And be loved in return_ '. Without thinking, I take out the camera from my purse, being stealthy so he doesn’t notice, and focus the lens on his direction, taking the picture quickly and putting down the camera before he turns. The picture comes out and I feel guilty for sneaking up on him that way, but I don’t regret it one bit because I could caught his peaceful features and serene aura, he looks exactly the way I see him. This unique moment has been immortalized forever, I dared to lock it up inside a paper square that won’t let us forget it, just cherish it, admire it, love it. I flip it and take out a marker, thinking of what could I write on the reverse, two words surging from the same background that echoed the glum song a few moments ago. Nature boy. He’s that kind of boy, a very strange, enchanted boy.

‘Can I take a picture?’, I almost drop the camera when I hear his voice, he’s standing next to me. I feel like I’ve been caught, but he doesn’t mention anything about my jumpy reaction, he’s waiting for my answer, patiently.

‘Yes, yes, of course’, I hide his picture inside the pocket of my raincoat and hand him the camera. He takes it ever so carefully and gestures the bridge, I nod, standing and stepping closer to him. We lay on the railing, the bicycle in our field of view. ‘Here, you see right through this hole with one eye, it’s like a tiny window, so you can spot what you’d like to picture’, he positions the camera in front of his face, closing his right eye and the other almost buried in the view finder. ‘Then, you press this button without taking away the camera’, I slide my fingers over his and put his index finger above the button without pressing as I instruct him. ‘Press it’, he does, a soft push followed by that click of the camera shutter. ‘And that’s it, you get the picture’, he puts down the camera and slides out the picture, then looking back at me, his eyes full of pride and happiness. I nod at the trees next to us, encouraging him to practice and take as many pictures as he wants, but he stays near the railing. I look at the lake, the ducks swimming, some of them are playing in the water, some others are just floating around, and I get lost in their games and natural behavior. Two ducks are fighting over a piece of bread someone must have thrown at them, the small one is winning while the other is trying to snatch the food away from him, and it a twist of fate, he succeeds in his intentions and swims as far as the can. The big duck chases him, furiously squawking, swimming in circles, stepping his rival’s bottom, and I let out a laugh at such a funny show. I turn to tell Bucky what’s happening just to find him standing right in front of me, camera in position, facing me, and the click was heard when he shot. The picture comes out, but both of us are dead quiet; he took me a picture. A picture of me, not the lake, not the trees, not the birds, not the sky, me. The smile on my lips fades away, he slowly puts down the camera and looks at me, horrified, frightened, flustered. 

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’, he starts to apologize. I must have the same mortified expression on my face because he puts the camera on the railing, like it burns his hands, like he did something terrible and outrageous. ‘I– I don’t know what– I just– you can throw it if–’, he stutters, panic growing in his eyes, he flexes his knees, ready to run, ready to leave, but we’re pass that, and I grab his arm before he even moves. 

‘It’s okay, Bucky, don’t worry’, I assure him, stroking his arm in a soothing manner. He said I would get rid of the picture because he took it, he did it out of urge, a simple, instinctive action, sudden, but not invasive. ‘I’m not mad, it was– I wasn’t expecting you to–’, I try to calm him down, whispering that he didn’t do anything bad, that I’m okay and he’s okay. He needs to feel safe here, a different environment, feel safe next to me in an open space, and I need him to know that I won’t let anything harm him, that I will protect him. The wind blows and makes the picture to fall down, straight to my feet. I bend and pick it up, my breath hitching on my throat when I look at it. He caught the moment when I laughed at the ducks, my smile is wide and natural, I’m full of bliss and energy, I’m healthy and strong, I’m alive. I fight back tears of joy, it’s been a long time since someone takes a picture of me, and when I look at it, I can’t recognize myself, but is a good way of estrangement. I’m amazed of what I am now, who am I with him. ‘It’s nice’, I say, deep honesty in my voice. He frowns, confused by my comment, but then, when he studies thoroughly my expression, his features relax and he nods. He knows I’m not telling him everything, but he also respects the space I’m leaving between each word; he doesn’t want to lose this moment, he’s letting me keep it, just like the picture, as a happy memory.

We stay in the lake for another hour, Bucky isn’t affected by our previous, tense moment, he’s still pretty merry, telling me what he likes about the place, not giving away how much he knows or how far he’s explored, but sharing its magical wildness with me while we walk towards the gardens. There are more birds, more trees, but no flowers and brilliant colors, we’re surrounded by a morbid amount of green, brown, gray and moistness. I take more pictures of the birds and trees, but Bucky lost his enthusiasm about the camera, and he simply stares at me while I do it, just like before. We leave the lake when we hear the lightings crashing against the clouds, and I thank both of our brains for having remembered to bring our raincoats. He rides the bicycle again, he goes as fast and careful, but the adrenaline can’t be felt, the stars and planets can’t be seen, but my grip on Bucky’s jacket is the same, refusing to ever let him go. It’s like an appeasing sensation, we’re reconciling with the blurry world around us, acknowledging it again, but such feeling disappears when it starts raining before we make it to our building. Bucky’s speed increases and we’re as sharp, fast and burning as the lightings above us, he breaks through every street, long or short, wide or narrow, until they become familiar and we arrive to the building, drenched, the water practically dripping from our raincoats as we enter the parking lot. We climb down of bicycle and take off our safety equipment, I gesture Bucky to keep his helmet when he attempts to give it back to me, then I lock the chain to secure the bicycle and we head to our apartments. We walk in silence, he isn’t agitated in spite of how fast he was pedaling, yet, he’s never agitated, he never seems to struggle with a physical activity, he accomplishes most of them without effort, not one single drop of sweat running down his forehead, never. His fatigue always comes from an emotional, mental wear. We reach our floor by the time the rain is pouring against the roof and the coldness sticks to my bones through the fabric of my clothes, we stop in front of our doors, facing each other, looking content and grateful, familiar.

‘You okay?’, he asks from his door. He’s never stopped showing his concern for my asthma, it’s almost like a subliminal reflex of his. 

‘Yeah, thank you’, he nods and starts to turn around. ‘Are you hungry? I could make us some spaghetti’, I always feel guilty when I make this move, it feels like I’m bribing him with food, and God knows I don’t mean any harm by doing it, I just want to spend more time with him (wait, what?). He smiles, but looks down and shakes his head.

‘I’m fine, thank you’, so, that’s a ‘no’. Well, I tried. I nod and he looks up, his smile shrinking into a tiny curve on the corner of his mouth. There’s friction in the space between us, he’s magnetic, he’s drawing me closer and closer until I’m standing mere centimeters away from him, and I can’t think of anything else than how much I want to be in his arms again, to feel him, breathe him, give him warmth and peace, show him how much I care about him. 

‘I had– it was a great day’, I mutter, our eyes hooked, our hearts beating at the same leaf pace, our souls linked. I stand on my tiptoes, supporting on his chest with my hands and lifting my head as far as I can to reach his left cheek. I press my lips against his stubbled skin, gently, caressingly, lovingly, and I feel his whole body stiffen under my palms. I don’t realize I closed my eyes until I step away, giving him back the space I assaulted. He’s not looking at me, his eyes are stuck on the ground, but there’s a faint blush on his cheeks, like two soft pink petals resting on his cheekbones. I love the way he gets uncomfortable when I’m uncharacteristically affectionate, and I have the feeling that I will end up killing him with that physical affection one of these days. ‘Have a good night’, I say, walking back to my door. He’s restraining a reaction, but don’t know if it’s a violent one, or he’s just containing a laugh, his contortioned expression isn’t clear enough to tell.

‘I’ll– I–’, he clears his throat, his voice is shaky and he pretty much babbles. ‘I’ll see you later’, and he enters his apartment without giving me time to answer him. What did I do to him? God, please, don’t let him die of a heart attack because I kissed his cheek. I open the door of my apartment and walk in with a smirk on my face, not knowing the reason of my amusement.

Later turns into Sunday morning. Bucky knocks at my door before I leave to work. He woke up earlier and brought me a ham and cheese sandwich and an orange juice. _‘Have a nice day, Robin’_ , he says and escorts me to the parking lot. I feel tickles in my stomach for the rest of the day. I’m rushing back home on Monday evening, pedaling as fast as I can, and when I arrive, Bucky scolds me for not being careful with my health. _‘You’ll have another asthma attack’_ , he looks at me sternly while he hands me the inhaler. I think of what he might be doing in that moment on Tuesday midday, there aren’t too many customers at the café and I spend every minute missing him dearly. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, Depeche Mode plays against my ears on Wednesday at down because I’m trying to relax. I give up at seven o’clock and stand up, heading to the bathroom to get ready for work. We’re listening to Chuck Berry on Thursday at dusk, sitting on the ledge of the rooftop, he says _‘You were right, I love him’_ and asks me what are we going to watch tomorrow. He looks at me in a funny, different way, but I can’t translate the meaning of his voiceless message. Friday night is ‘Back to the Future’ night. Words can barely describe how amazed and thrilled he is, he can’t stop saying how good, how fun and electrifying the story is. He gets impossibly excited when I tell him there are two more movies of it. My body refuses to rest again, it's Saturday already and my insomnia is taking its toll on me, even Bucky asked me if I was feeling fine, his eyes full of concern and determination to help me. I’m listening to Nirvana, but they are useless, my eyes are jaded, they’re burning for the lack of sleep, and I’m starting to feel desperate because I don’t know what’s happening to me, why am I unable to sleep more than a couple of hours per day. Kurt Cobain’s melancholic voice eases off the tension of my body, but it’s not enough to lead me right to slumber. He shouts, he says he lights his candles in a daze ‘cause he’s found God, and I want to find him too. A set of shouts rumble on the headphones, they’re stronger, they sound so real that they send chills up my spine, they turn terrified and frantic. They’re so real because they are. It’s Bucky. Bucky is screaming. I take off my headphones and immediately hear his cries from the other side of the wall. He’s having a nightmare, he’s losing himself in pain, the demons are dragging him inside a darkness he can’t escape, not alone. He needs me; I’m losing him. I jump out of the bed and run like crazy towards his apartment, too blind in panic and haste to feel my own exhaustion. I don’t know what I’m going to do, I don’t know if singing to him will work like the last time, but it’s too late to come up with a tactical plan because I’ve finally reached the door and I slam it open. My lugs deflate in a deaf explosion, the adrenaline abandons my body, leaving me light-headed and disoriented; he’s standing under the threshold, right in front of me. 

‘Bucky’, I whisper, relieved that he’s awake and no longer suffering, but my tranquility lasts a brief moment, the time it takes me to realize that something is wrong. His face is dark, threatening, dangerous. Lethal. He carries a shadow on his shoulders, it sucks every drop of life from him, he’s absent, gone, like a machine, his eyes are empty and his breathing is heavy, like he can’t take enough air from this place. Everything happens too fast after the first step he takes forward; he grabs me by the neck, his mighty, bandaged hand, once gentle and careful, closes around my throat and presses exactly on my pulse point. He smashes my body against the nearest wall. I can hear the sound of metal clicking, electronic noises coming from him. I try to break free from his handgrip strength, kicking at the air and twisting my body, but I just manage to scratch his arm, removing the bandage from it in desperate movements. I actually burst out the scarce oxygen left on my lungs when I feel an impenetrable surface where my nails should sink into flesh, when the burning coldness and hardness of metal shines before my eyes. He has a _metal arm_ ; his whole left arm is made of iron. I yelp, trying more fervently to make him release me, but it only makes him angrier and he presses his thick forearm, the metallic one, against my throat, giving me enough time to choke out a few words, pleas. ‘Let me go, please’, I don’t know when I started to cry, but my face is totally wet, the tears running down his arm. I let out harsh sobs, but he’s unfazed, he’s killing me, he’s squeezing the life out of me, and he doesn’t care. Bucky’s gone, my Bucky’s gone, wherever he is, the strange, enchanted boy that lives next to me, the one who sighs when I hug him, the one who blushes when I kiss his cheek, the one who likes cookies and cream ice-cream and The Rolling Stones, the one I miss when I’m not with him, the one I run to after work. The nature boy. Bucky. The one I have to bring back, back home, back to me. I have to try it, if I’m going to die, I’ll die taking him away from the darkness he’s imprisoned in, I have to bring him back. _‘Ver– ver– vernis… k– k–k…’_ , but my attempts fail, the air is consuming inside my lungs, I lost my strength, I’m losing my life, just like I’m losing him. My eyelids are too heavy, and I’m beaten, sick and tired of fighting. _Come back_. The pressure against my neck weakens little by little, I hear a sharp gasp and then the iron-cold hand is replaced by a warm, familiar one. _Come back_. A frightened voice calls my name over and over again, I know that voice, but is very far, very far over land and sea. _Come back to me_. He says my name, he’s so broken, his voice shaky and sobbed. He’s back. He lets go of me, but it doesn’t matter because I’m fainting, crumbling, dying.

‘ _ROBIN!_ ’, and everything is dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! I went hardcore on this one, I had a lot of things in my mind and I wanted to show them all to you! I hope you're enjoying this journey, we're heading to a dark part of the story for both of our lovebirds. Thanks for reading, thanks for your comments and kudos! You inspire me every single day. LOVE YOU ALL :D
> 
> I'm so excited, I couldn't wait to show you [this](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/147325993317/two-fan-arts-a-couple-of-my-readers-sent-me) The first one was made by my amazing friend Hasusamimi, thank you cebollita :*, and the second one is from an anonymous reader, but I want to thank her/him as well. They're both gorgeous, aren't they? PLEASE, check them out :D


	12. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _'I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.'_
> 
>  
> 
> _Naked human, Christopher Poindexter._  
> 

The snow falls quietly, I know, I see it, and I can feel it this time. He’s standing by my side, Steve, and he’s smiling at me. We’ve been here before I became The Winter Soldier, before he was the man on the bridge, before we saw each other falling. We’re friends, and we’re ready to fight, we’re willing to die. We jump, me after him, and we land on the roof of a moving train. That train, the freight car. Steve goes first, and I follow him inside. We move synchronously, a tactical choreography to protect our lives, I have him and he has me, our muscles have memorized the other’s movements, like an intrinsic bond. I know what we’re here for; he’s here, the scientist. He did something to me back when I was captured, he filled my body with mysterious substances, he said he wanted to help me, rehabilitate me so I could finish the job I was demanded to do, but before he could finish anything, Steve came looking for me. We’re in position, guns ready and hyperaware senses, but they manage to divide us, two doors keeping us apart, exposing us as individuals, as easy targets and stand-alone units that could be erased from the map in one single shot. The gunfire starts, my own rifle firing at the iron charged man, his blue rays burning holes in any surface they hit. When I’m about to run out of ammos, the door next to me opens and Steve throws me a new gun, we nod at each other, fully acquainted with our body language, not needing words to understand our minds. We set a counterattack, surprising our enemy with a team work perfectly coordinated and taking him down. _I had him on the ropes_. I say. _I know you did_. He answers. An inside joke. We’re safe now, we have to finish the job so we can go home, however, life has another plan. Another iron man shows up, he’s pointing at us with his terminating guns and he shoots right to me. _Get down!_ Steve gets in the way, protecting us, protecting me, but he can’t contain the impact and flies off, hitting one of the walls of the railway carriage. The other wall blows when the shot ricochets on his shield, the later falling solid on my feet. This is my turn to protect him and get done with this bastard, but I’m no match for him. He shoots and my body is sent to the destroyed side. The rush, the adrenaline, the fear claiming my body and mind, and no matter how much I fight, how much I want to hold on the handle and wait for help, I can’t. I’m too weak. _Bucky!_ Steve. He’s climbing on the suspended wall and tries to reach out to me. _Hang on!_ There’s no time, he can’t save me. _Grab my hand!_ It’s not enough, the handle is breaking, my fate betraying his will. _No!_ He’s too late. 

I’m falling all over again, dying for the millionth time like it’s not enough to die once, like my death should echo between the mountains for countless ages. The ice breaches into my flesh and bones, body parts everywhere, blood outflowing from me, reducing my very soul to shreds. I wake up in a bright room, they’re surrounding me, the white coats, and he’s there, the scientist, and in my next blinking motion, I’m standing in front of a woman, she’s so beautiful and deadly, she’s looking at me with menace in her green eyes, her red, long hair frames her doll-like face, her grin’s sending lustful shivers running down my spine. _Natalia_. So deadly, so precious. Our bodies clash against each other with passion and violence, powerful blows, wild onslaughts, we’re sweating and gasping, we’re desperately fighting to overpower the other. _James_. She’s wearing a ballerina dress now, she steals a glance of two in my direction, alluring, provoking me, challenging me. I’m being taken away from her. She doesn’t need me anymore; I have to die again. _Put him on ice_. But I’m still breathing, I’m alive. Faces play in hindsight around me, blinding me until I unmask the demons and they melt into blue fire. The cold hands ripping apart my body become outstretched arms aiming to save me, never to hold me back. I remember him, that little guy from Brooklyn that was too dumb not to run away from a fight. Steve Rogers. _Don’t do anything stupid until I get back_. My best friend. _You’re a punk_. I know him, I’ve always known him. _No, you don’t_. No, I don’t. He’s my mission, he means nothing to me, he’s nothing, just a target. _Bucky?_ I have to kill him, he has to disappear, I must destroy him. _I’m with you ‘till the end of line_. The are too many words drowning my mind and my eyes shut open when I can’t bare the weight of those words. I sit on the bed, my lungs scratching on the thick air. Everything clicks in one flashing second. Zola. Hydra. The Red Room. Natalia. Steve. Steve. It’s the missing timeline of my past, a set of pieces that fit in the right holes of my memory and complete a bigger picture, a picture that remains unfinished because it’s not enough. It’s not over. I hear a sharp intake of breathing at the other side of the wall. Someone is moving fast, running towards my position. _They’re here_. They can’t run faster than me. _Find them before they find you_. Yes, sir. I stand up and trot towards the threat. _Kill them_. Yes, sir. I need to be there before they do. They have to die, all of them. Kill them all. I’m standing straight and ready, facing the target. She’s too small and weak, so pity, but she’s holding a gun in front of me. _Bring her down_. I lash out against her, snatching away her gun and she laughs, looking at me with a pleasured expression. Her eyes, menacing and violent, full of venom and death. _Make her disappear_. Her hands, hiding guns and knifes, set up to attack, to kill. _Tear her apart_. Her lips, twisted in a wicked, brutal smile that drills into my chest. _Kill her_. Her voice, poisoned with lies and threats, whispering against my face. _Bucky_. I know her, she’s a rainbow. _Robin_. Robin’s eyes, loving and deep, lighting up her face. _Let me go_. Robin’s hands, tiny and careful, surrounding me, embracing me. _Please_. Robin’s lips, heart-shaped, pink lips, smiling at me ever so tenderly. _Come back_. Robin’s voice, summer breeze caressing my ears, tinkling against my heart, begging me to stay, begging me to stop. _Stop_.

‘Robin’, her name escape from my lips, and I look down at her, through her, knowing her. She’s gasping, her whole face red and desperate. I look at my metal arm against her throat, it’s suffocating her, I’m choking her. I quickly remove it from her and she opens her mouth, trying to retrieve some of the oxygen I took from her. The closeness of our bodies prevent her from falling, but she loses all the strength, all the life of her body and collapses. ‘N– no, no, no’, I hold her arms, my hands shaking, too afraid to touch her now, and I put her down gently on the floor. ‘Robin’, I scan her body looking for more injures I could have caused, but the are any. The sound of my own frantic breathing makes me realize that she’s not breathing. The horror, the panic, the guilt floods my heart and soul. ‘ROBIN!’, I shout, shaking her, never aggressively, and lean down to check on her heart rate, but her heart is not beating. I let out a strangled cry of disbelief. This can’t be, this can’t happen, not to her. I’m suddenly panting, almost sobbing, too lost, too shocked. Think, Barnes, think! There has to be something, this can’t end up like this, you have to try everything and save her, bring her back. An idea hits my brain; the fucking CPR. I read that shit a few moths ago and I remember how to do it, mostly. Shit. I position her, laying her body completely on the floor, tilting her head a little backwards and kneeling next to her. I put my hands, now steadier, over her chest, right above her heart, and push down. One, two, three, four, five till thirty, then I lift her chin, pinch her nose, cover her warm mouth with mine and blow once, twice. ‘Wake up!’, I whisper as I straighten to pump her chest again, hoping she’ll open her eyes, but she doesn’t. ‘Wake up’, my voice is like a wimp prayer, fainter this time. ‘Wake up…’, I mutter against her swollen lips, my faithless tears falling on her cheeks, and just when I hear my heart starting to tear itself in half, she wakes up. ‘Robin’, I let out her name in a shaky breath, silently relief, immensely grateful. She sits up abruptly, coughing, gasping, her hands clinging to my shirt in a desperate grip, holding for dear life. Without thinking, I bath her face with gentle, tired kisses, my lips avoiding her mouth, and she lets me cradle her over my lap. ‘Breathe, deep breaths’, I tell her, and thanks to some rational response in her rattled senses, she does, but she’s inhaling too hard, her motions not enough to steady her breathing. She needs her medicine. I look around, but I have no idea where the fuck is her inhaler. ‘Stay with me’, I murmur to her and lift her up, walking towards the mattress, her weak and fragile body still unresponsive. When I put her down, I spot her small purse and take it, finding the inhaler almost after I dig my hand inside of it. ‘Here’, I bring closer the object to her mouth, her eyes are half-closed as her hand reach out to take it. She inhales the medicine a few times, and I move away from her, the weight of my actions sinking me down on the floor. I almost kill her, I killed her, she was dead. I killed Robin. Timeless seconds are burying me while her breathing stabilizes, I can hear her heart beating now, but it’s too much, I can’t take it, I can’t stand the guilt, the shame, the fear. I almost lose her.

‘Bucky’, her voice is drained, breathless, and the touch of her fingers on my flesh arm startles me, making me look down at her. ‘What happened?’, her eyes are lifeless, hurt, scared.

‘I’m so sorry, Robin’, I babble, the knot on my throat distorting my words. I can’t even look straight in her face, she’s like this because of me, because I hurt her, I fucking killed her. The statement makes me dizzy. I can’t do this to her, she deserves better, she deserves safety. And I just... ‘I can’t’, I speak out my thoughts, standing and walking fast towards the exit, away from her, from hurting her. ‘I have to go’, I don’t know why I say it out loud. ‘I have to leave’, neither why do I fell like I have to explain it, why does she needs to understand.

‘Wait, no’, her plea stops me. She sits up, what the fuck is she doing? She could hurt herself. ‘I– I’m– you didn’t–’, she’s trying to dismiss my actions, trying to soothe me and wash away the guilt. That won’t work this time. I shake my head, turning my back to her again. ‘Bucky, please’, I have no strength to ignore her, goddamn my weakness and egoism. ‘Tell me what’s going on’, she sounds helpless. ‘Please’, defeated. ‘Tell me the truth, the whole truth’, facing her now, her eyes are filled with restrained tears.

‘I don’t know what that truth is! I don’t trust myself, and you shouldn’t trust me, Robin!’, my exasperation explodes into yells, making her jump. Damn it, Barnes. ‘I only know that I don’t deserve any of this– this peace, this shelter, or your hospitality and compassion, your forgiveness’, my rant flows hastily. ‘I’ve been taking everything from you! Your time, your money, your space, even your goddamned life!’, I don’t care if I hurt her feelings anymore, all I care about it’s her, her safety, and if I have to break her heart and leave her crying on the floor, I will. By God I will. ‘Let me go, Robin’, my demand sounds like one of her pleas. ‘Let me keep you safe from me’, maybe if I convince her that she’s in danger, she will let me go. ‘I owe you that’, I affirm in an honest statement.

‘Tell me, please’, she’s not going to give up. ‘Just do it’, give up on me, Robin. I beg you. ‘You owe me that’, her words break through my heart. I can’t deny her anything, she wants to know, she’s asking me to tell her who am I, but is she prepared to swallow the bitterness of that truth? I nod and approach to her, not too close, but easily leaving a short distance between us because I hate being away from her.

‘My name is James Buchanan Barnes’, I start with my full name. This is it. I’m about to open myself to her, utterly, shamelessly, she’ll know everything, and if she wasn’t afraid of me, she will be after she knows. ‘I was born on March 10th’, a shaky breath pauses the line of words. This is it, she’ll know. Now. ‘1917’, and there’s no going back, just further. She frowns, but that can’t stop me. I have to keep going. ‘I grew up the oldest child of four. I was an excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom. I enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, me and the rest of the 107th shipped out to Italian front. Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, I endured long periods of isolation, depravation and torture’, the words aren’t mine, they belong to the short biography I memorized from the Smithsonian exhibition. ‘My prison camp was liberated by my childhood friend, Steve Rogers, known as Captain America. I led, alongside Rogers, Captain America’s newly formed unit, The Howling Commandos. My marksmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed Hydra bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theater’, I take a deep breath before I speak the next words. ‘Best friends since childhood, me and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. I was the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country’, never to be looked for, never to be found. ‘I read that in a museum’, I say and chuckle, frankly amused by my own misery. ‘What I remember is– is falling into the ice. I was on a train and Steve, he was there, he tried to… but he couldn’t’, I look down. For some reason, I refuse to even glare at her, I’m ashamed and I’m not sure why. ‘I was found by Russian soldiers, I’d lost my left arm in the fall, and they took me to some kind of laboratory where they– they did this to me’, I signal the exposed metal of my arm, but avoid stopping on that point for long. I don’t want to make her feel more uncomfortable. ‘They experimented on me, improved my body and turned me into a– they used me to– they… I had to do what they told me to do’, I don’t want her to know every single detail either. The cruelty, the pain, even the smell of the place I was locked in makes me clench my jaw; I want to find them and kill them, reduce them to shreds and erase any proof of their existence from the face of the earth. 

‘Bucky…’, she trails off my name, comforting me, almost sharing my agony.

‘I was kept inside a cryostasis chamber that prevented me from ageing and I would remain frozen until they saw fit to bring me in, until they needed me, The Winter Soldier, the peak of physical perfection. They weaponized my body with the highest level of technology, I was rebuilt to be the perfect soldier and the most efficient weapon, and as such, I wasn’t allowed to remember, or feel anything’, none of that came from my own memories, but all the research I’ve been doing since I left Hydra. ‘Everything was easier that way’, I shrug. The implications of the last part make her flinch again. ‘On my last mission, I had to take down two targets, a man and a woman. They were different, they were, somehow, like me; enhanced, well trained, strong, but when I faced them, I– I felt– I felt like I knew them. The woman, she– I– we trained together a long time ago, and we…’, how do I tell her that I used to fuck with that woman, but felt absolutely nothing? It’s the truth, there was no love between us, just ravenous passion, and maybe some understanding. But Robin doesn’t need to know that. ‘And the man, Steve, we were the same, the same strength and speed, the same perfection, but we were divergent, like two averted, immovable forces’, different scenes from us fighting play inside my head. How he protected Natalia, how I didn’t recognize any of them, what happened when he said my name. ‘I failed and returned to where I was kept, the technicians fixed my arm, but something had changed; when I saw Steve and he– he recognized me, I remembered him, and more. The train, the fall, parts of those years they were slowly altering my body and had me frozen’, they wiped out my mind when I became erratic, they denied me my own memories, my life. Those bastards. ‘I had to bring him down at all coast, I had to complete the mission and kill him. I intercepted him on some kind of plane, but instead of fighting, he begged me to stop, and it didn’t matter how many times I’d hit him, how injured and weak he felt, he refused to fight me’, the suppliant expression on Steve’s face haunts my dreams every now and then, but it never affected me. It was nothing. ‘He dropped his shield, and he said those words, then, he fell too, he was the one falling, and I was going to see him die, but I– I couldn’t, I just– I jumped and I took him out of the water’, just like that. He was my friend, we were together since the very beginning, ‘till the end of the line. ‘And I disappeared’, but we weren’t ready. I wasn’t, I’m not. We keep quiet for a few minutes, she’s assimilating the information, the truth. 

‘How did you end up here in Bucharest?’, she asks cautiously. I can’t see her face because my eyes are still studying the floor, but she sounds composed. I wouldn’t stand a rejection, nor fight it, or a disgusted expression, and I’m stunned that she hasn’t demanded me to leave the hell out of her apartment yet.

‘After I left Steve at the river’s shore, I searched for my past identity, first in the Ideal Federal Savings Bank, where they had me during the whole flying things bullshit, when I broke in and attacked the scientists, I realized that it wasn’t who I was, not anymore, so I left too, taking some files and a bunch of money, getting the hell out of there’, that’s how I’ve been surviving. The money I stole has been well administrated, I’m aware that it won’t last forever, so I’m careful with my expenses. Sandwiches, coffee, fixing the bicycle for Robin, chips and ice-cream are among the important and indispensable purchases. ‘I went to the Smithsonian Institution in DC, there was this memorial about me and I read it all, but felt nothing either, so I ran and ran, looking for information in safe houses and Hydra bases until I decided to settle in one place and keep a low profile’, and that’s when I saw her, bow-legged and soggy as hell, standing in front of her door. Adorable. I shake my head at the fond memory, focusing on the rest of my narrative. ‘I don’t know how many people I’ve killed, why, I remember their faces and voices begging me to have mercy and spare their lives, but that wasn’t the mission’, the mission was to kill them, tear them apart until it was enough. Robin wanted this, she asked me to reveal myself in front of her, she’s acknowledging the monster I’ve been and she’s dealing with it. ‘Nothing has ever made sense, the things in my head, my nightmares, it didn’t make sense until now’, I refer to recent dream, the one that triggered the no longer doubtful facts of my past, the one that made me kill her. A chill runs down my back.

‘Were you dreaming about that?’, she hawks. Her throat must me dry and sore. Shit. I stand up, walking towards the kitchen and take out a mug from the cupboard, the purple one. I try to pay full attention to my actions, but my hands are shaking while I prepare her a tea, something that might help to mitigate the aching of her throat.

‘I dreamt about the day I fell, about Steve. These memories are still unclear, yet they mean something to me’, I continue from the kitchen, speaking just loud enough to be heard. I check on my grip of the counter, I don’t want to break it and scare her again. The distance between us help me to ease off and control my emotions. The rage, mainly. ‘I don’t know if they’re real, or just some implanted thought, sometimes I see things in my dreams, sometimes when I’m awake, that look familiar, but it feels like finding something I don’t remember losing’, the last part feels like a knifepoint against my chest. I turn around and for the first time since I started talking, I look at her, and her mere sight makes me want to rip my heart out of my chest. She’s sitting with her arms around her legs, there’s a huge red bruise on her neck, the rest of her skin is dead pale, her eyes are still lifeless, her lips are swollen and lurid. She looks like a scared little animal trapped in a corner, vulnerable. I gulp and walk back to her with the tea mug, hot and steamy, firmly held by my flesh hand.

‘Have you seen him or talked to him?’, I bend down and she takes it, not even looking at my metal arm, like it doesn’t exist, like it doesn’t matter. I shake my head in a negation. She frowns, taking a sip of the tea. ‘Why?’, she grimaces; she probably burned her tongue.

‘It doesn’t feel right’, I explain while I return to the kitchen avoiding looking at her. I’m more comfortable there, and she’s safer. ‘Not now’, not ever. I cross my arms over my chest and lean on the counter. Why the hell are we so damn calm? She must be screaming for help, throwing me things, threating me, pushing me away from her, and I should be running, already half my way out of the country. She cares about me so much, she’s so strong-minded to help me that she’s willing to risk her life in the process, and I’m a selfish son of a bitch that can’t bring himself to leave her because I genuinely care about her too. We’re messed up, we truly are.

‘Bucky, I– I’m sorry’, her weak voice quivers. I lift my head and I see no pity in her eyes, rather a deep and honest compassion. She opens and closes her mouth several times, unable to formulate the right words, and she sighs, putting down her mug and standing up. I consider walking over and help her, but I’m too afraid to touch her, like those first days we met, such a long time ago, it seems. She steps closer, her body moving languidly, until she’s in front of me. I’m incapable of tearing my eyes off her. _Robin_. ‘I… I want you to know that what happened, this, it won’t change anything, it was an accident, we can–’, a feral grunt coming from the depths of my chest cuts out her sentence.

‘Jesus, Robin, you can’t be serious’, a furious expression contorts my face. She’s serious, her steady steps in my direction conforming my fears.

‘It’s not your f–’, oh, hell no.

‘Don’t say that’, I warn her and she paralyzes in her place. ‘Don’t fucking say that because that’s not true’, my tone is no longer calm. I’m beyond angry, I want to yell at her that she’s goddamn crazy and that I must go, disappear, leave her alone, but I’m not moving, I’m paralyzed too. ‘Being manipulated doesn’t make me innocent’, it doesn’t excuse anything, and she has to understand that. ‘Just don’t say it’. I have to make her come to her senses, this time using every resource and strategy, even dirty ones, to stop that ridiculous worry she feels for me. But before I speak, she takes the steps that are left and shove her hands at me, hitting my shoulders with her palms, fuming, her face matching the red of the mark on her neck and her body trembling with anger. I open my eyes, stunned, supporting my body on the counter because she keeps throwing weak punches at me. She’s hurt.

‘What do you want me to say? That I’m scared, that I will run away from you or cry for help and take you to the police?’, she’s practically yelling at my face, her tiny fists punching my chest. There’s your long waited reaction, Barnes. ‘Well, I am frightened, I don’t want you to hurt me, kill me. I saw how much power you have over one life, how meaningless it is to your true strength, and it would be stupid of me not to be afraid of that part of you’, I’ve never seen her like this, unnerved, out of control, however her fierce dread and urgent strength make her real, human. ‘But I’m more terrified that you turn back to be a murderer, that you lose what makes you human, and never come back’, her voice breaks, heavy sobs drowning her words, and when she can’t hold them back anymore, she let go and cries, her weeps suffocating against my chest, her tears wetting my shirt and her arms resting tiredly on my shoulders. ‘I don’t intend to expel you from your actions, you did them, you killed all those people, innocent or not, and none of what you do will ever change that’, she lifts her head, making me look down at her, and I know it doesn’t have to hurt what she’s saying, but it does, but I’m no sure if it’s because she’s saying them, or because they’re true. ‘But it’s still not your fault, not only yours’, she insists.

‘I hurt you’, I say and look away. ‘And I can’t promise you I’ll never do it again’, she grabs my shirt, desperate, trying to ground me with her.

‘Then don’t’, she hides her face in the crook between my neck and shoulder blade. ‘Don’t lie to me, just–’, she frees my shirt from her grip and leans her forehead on my chin. ‘Let me be here for you’, her breath flutters on the skin of my throat, tickling. ‘Trust me’, her closeness isn’t letting me think straight. I want to surround her with both of my arms and swear to her I will stay with her. ‘Stay’, my thoughts in her mouth. 

‘I trust you, but I can’t let you trust me’, I gently remove her hands from my shoulders and step away, leaving her trembling behind me. ‘I already killed you’, I turn around, clenching my jaw to prevent myself from shouting. ‘You stopped breathing, your heart stopped beating, you were dead for one minute, Robin’, of all the things I’ve made disappear, even myself, I can’t erase those words from the world. They happened, they hurt, they are too painful and real. ‘How can you ask me to stay after I–?’

‘You’re the only one I have’, she says before I finish. My heart skips a beat, because even though I understand what she means, I refuse believe in it. It’s not safe, for neither of us. ‘There’s no happy family waiting for me somewhere, I have no home to go back to, I don’t belong anywhere, not even here. I’m alone. I was alone, and then you kneeled in front of me when I fell off the stairs that night, you helped me’, I remember that night, how terrified I was, guilty and anxious. She dislocated her ankle and I helped her get to her apartment. I hurt her too, but it was necessary. I hurt her because she would get better that way. ‘I know now how much it meant to you, helping rather than hurting, but you did it anyways, and in that moment I didn’t feel alone, not anymore’. It never occurred to me that Robin was alone too; she never talks about her family or friends, she occasionally mentions her boss, but other than that, she spends most of her time with me, and I realize with a shudder that she’s right. We’re everything we have. ‘And it’s the least you deserve, the least anyone deserves; to be listened’, in an unexpected twist of roles, she’s the one who’s coaxing me to think twice my intentions. ‘We’re friends, Bucky, and yes, you’ve been a monster, you’ve been used to do terrible things, they turned you into a poppet, a soulless soldier, but it’s not everything you are’, she’s stepping closer again. ‘I know that, I’ve seen it’.

‘Then what I am?’, I’m challenging her to tell me what I haven’t figured out in the last year, and as evil as I can be, I try to break her confidence, her trust in both of us. ‘Who am I supposed to be called?’, she looks down, thoughtful. ‘I’m– I’m not who _he_ remembers and I’m not what _they_ wanted me to be, but I know nothing more’, I sigh in frustration. She hasn’t answer, of course, she doesn’t know. ‘I’m no one’. There’s nothing left for me to say, nor her. We settle in a quiet atmosphere where none of us dare to say a word. I hear her gulp and walk in my direction, her body radiating peace as the beating of her heart becomes a drumming imprisoned in her chest. 

‘Be someone else’, she whispers, her tone remains suppliant and weak. Won’t she ever stop trying? She never stops smiling at me, maybe this will be the case as well. ‘You can choose to do that’, she empathizes the word ‘choose’. Don’t lie to me, Robin. I have no right to choose anything, don’t you get it? I’m a killer, you said it yourself, and I won’t change that nature corroding my soul. ‘Don’t be James Barnes or Sergeant Barnes, don’t be The Winter Soldier’, she reaches out to take my hand, and for one second, my self-indulgence allows me to get lost in the comfort she’s offering. ‘Be Bucky, just Bucky’, I let her fingers slide through mine, the flesh ones. They’re so warm and gentle. ‘Stay with me, be Bucky with me’, I can’t. I don’t deserve a life, much less a life with her.

‘It’s not that simple’, the picture of her being choked by my metal arm plays over and over again, it blinds me, tortures me. I pull apart from her fingers, but she reacts before I move further away and she holds be back, demanding my attention. It’s not an aggressive anchor, but it’s firm.

‘It has been all this time, hasn’t it? The Rolling Stones, the donuts, coffee, Grease, cookies and cream ice-cream’, I close my eyes, cherishing the glints of happiness we’ve shared. ‘The lake’, the ride to the lake. Her laugh, my own, our freedom and joy. It was ours. ‘It was that simple, and it was real’, her words hit in the right spot. It’s her, the only truth that matters, the only one I have, the only one I can trust and let trust me. It's not just that I know it, I’m sure of it now. ‘We’re real’, yes, we are. We’re human and damaged and real. ‘You’re here because you feel safe enough to guard down, because it’s worth this risk to you somehow, otherwise you would have left long ago’, I sense her step back and release my body, giving me space and time to clear my head and heart. I sigh and she caresses my temple with her knuckles. ‘Now I ask you, why did you stay?’, her voice is barely a whisper.

‘I was tired of running’, I open my eyes. I should be alarmed by her closeness, I didn’t realize when I leaned down and her nose almost touches mine, but I honestly don’t give a damn. I need her like this, warm and close, I need to be with her. ‘I’m tired’, I whisper back. The peaceful energy she’s channeling to my body drains every drop of the intense argument we had, soothing me. She brushes her lips against my right cheek, such intimacy breaks the boundaries of friendship, yet it’s not romantic, it’s familiar. We’re bonded. She kisses my cheek, leaning back and taking my hand. She leads us blindly to the mattress, my eyes are stuck on hers and if we fall, it doesn’t matter, we’ll fall together. There’s a voice screaming in the back of my mind, telling me that this is wrong and I have to leave as fast as I can to protect her from me, but the eagerness to stay by her side shuts it down. She hasn’t said a word; her pleading stare sends waves of harmony flowing through my veins, never letting go of my hand, and every step that we take encourages me to go forward. I’d follow her anywhere. She runs her hands up my arms, and when I try to draw away the metal one, she shushes me, giving me a reassuring nod and pushing me down on the mattress. I surrender to her touch, resting my head on the pillows and a twinge of panic makes my stomach twist because I still don’t know what is she doing. My body stiffens when she kneels next to me, covering me with the comforter, sliding under it as well and turning off a lamp I didn’t notice was on. She turns, facing me, smiling at me, her tender expression relaxing my muscles, and I smile back, finally understanding her. She wants me to sleep with her tonight, like a mother allowing her child to crawl on her bed after a bad dream. I need her, and she knows that I do. When I look up, I frown at the fluorescent stars glued to the roof.

‘What are those?’, I ask hoarsely.

‘Glow-in-the-dark stars, they help me to sleep’, she explains without looking at them. ‘Close your eyes’, she commands sweetly. I don’t need to be told twice, after all, it must be three or four in the morning. We stay quiet until our breathings can barely be heard. There’s an acceptable distance between us, I could stretch my right arm and touch her hand. I don’t, but she does, sleepily linking our fingers again. ‘ _Bayu-bayushki-bayu nye lozhisya na krayu. Pridyot serenkiy volchok I ukhvatit za bochok_ ’. It’s her Russian lullaby. ' _On ukhvatit za bochok I potashchit vo lesok, pod rakitovyi kustok_ ’, she sings and sings until I’m diving into slumber. She sighs a ‘Good night, Bucky’, but I’m far too gone, her voice echoing in my dreams.

Good night, Robin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! Here's chapter twelve and oh, my God, it's been such an adventure. First of, I took a few things from the comics about Buckynat, but adapted it to my own intentions with the storyline. I'm starting to reveal a little of the way we're going to head in further chapters and how I will approach the MCU events, but there's still a lot of ground to cover, so don't worry. We'll have a lot of Bucky and Robin before everything goes to hell (cries). Also, I have some bad news: I won't be posting chapters for the next two weeks, I'll be on a trip with my mom and I can't take y laptop with me. Please, forgive me!! :( I hope you like this one, and as always, thank you so much for the comments, I've been reading all of them again and I almost cry of joy. Your words are so sweet and they make me truly happy. Thank you thank you THANK YOU!!! :D 
> 
> PS: I added a summary on this chapter because I just read that book (which I highly recommend) and that quote inspired me a lot. Have a beautiful week. I'll see you all soon :D


	13. We Might As Well Be Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE read the notes at the end.

It’s seven thirty in the morning and I haven’t stopped looking at him. His heavenly face, his chest rising and falling in a strong and deep rhythm, his muscles free from tension and the contrast of his skin; smooth and flawless on the right side, the kind of skin that you would love to run your fingers over and raise goosebumps on it, but the left side is cracked flesh, a set of scars surrounding the place where the metal prosthetic limb begins and the man ends. They did this to him. They brought him back to life and turned him into a weapon, froze him and made him forget who he really was over and over again, and none of those times he knew why. The thought of Bucky locked down, monitored, tortured until he got used to be in pain and asking himself what kind of horrible thing he could possibly have done to deserve that hell, shrinks my heart into a ball of hate and affliction. They took everything from him, they gave him an artificial existence, the darkness and sorrow as his only company during all those decades, his body, mind and heart rusting into the ice. I swallow down a sob, my lips trembling, one of my hands closes into a fist while I blink away my tears and the other tightens around his fingers. I tell myself that it’s not his fault, he didn’t mean to hurt anyone, he was following orders, mindless and impassive, but the pain in my neck rebuts those excuses; he wasn’t following orders last night, no one told him to chocked me, it was all on his count, and he ended up killing me. The beauty of his face turns into death, it’s repulsive, it makes me want to scream, to hurt him and run away, but it’s him, Bucky, just Bucky. He’s safe by my side now, nothing can reach to us because this place, my apartment, my bed, my heart will be his shelter, his strength, I can be strong enough, I can fight for both of us if he’s tired of fighting. I can, and I will protect him. I sigh and he moves a little, turning his body to find a new comfortable position. He looks exhausted and sad. I untangled our fingers, bringing up the sheets to cover his chest, my hand lingering above him, one finger sliding down his metal arm. I touch it carefully, feeling it’s toughness under my fingertips. It doesn’t belong to him, this is not him, but then, is still part of him, it’s what makes him whole at the same time that it doesn’t fit on his body. Many questions cloud my mind, many doubts and fears, suddenly I’m not so sure about what I think or feel, but I don’t have time to collect my thoughts because he sits up abruptly, his head turning from side to side, his eyes searching for threats and his body tensing in a defensive manner. 

‘Bucky, Bucky!’, I grab his shoulders, pushing him back down on the mattress, but he doesn’t respond and shakes off my hands, babbling random words in Russian. I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. ‘I’m Robin and you’re in my apartment’, his eyes light up in recognition, placing himself in the moment, coming back from wherever he went in his dreams. His nightmares. 

‘Robin’, I nod quickly, reassuring his words. ‘Did– did I h–hurt you? What– what–’, he whispers between heavy gasps, his hair sticks to his forehead, sweating, his flesh hand grasps the sheets, trembling. I shush him, caressing his cheeks, trying to calm him.

‘No, no. I’m fine, I promise’, he lets out a strangled sob, hiding his face in the crook of my neck and wrapping me in his arms. I fight against the urge to turn away his need of physical contact, the pain on my neck more present than ever, stronger, but my heart takes it all away when his grip tightens, holding on to me for dear life, beyond terrified, the farthest lost he’s been. ‘You’re safe, you’re with me’, I whisper against the side of his head and dig my fingers in his hair, rubbing his scalp and laying us down the mattress. His figure eclipses mine, the skin of his bare torso is pressed against my chest, still damp and unbelievably soft. We stay there until he stops shivering and panting, my body anchoring him and pacifying his troubled mind. I hum the Russian lullaby he knows, the beating of his heart mixes with the melody and we fill each other’s gaps, like two spirits fitting in one entity. The room is invaded by golden light, bit by bit, the sun climbs up the windows and I squirm involuntary. His weight isn’t unpleasant, but I’m starting to think too much, conscious of the passing time and our current situation. Bucky feels my uneasiness and lifts his body, hovering above me and looking at me with a frown full of concern.

‘Are you alright?’, he’s so close that his breath fans over my face as he speaks, fresher than morning breeze, and it would take us a slight lean forward to touch each other’s noses, or lips. The air surrounding us changes, my stomach clenches and a knot stocks in my throat. My mind travels to the depths of an unknown place where my heart beats faster than the flutter of a humming bird and a tickling in my abdomen baths my body in cold sweat. Waves of a different kind of warmth rises up my chest, setting the room on a weak but very much present fire. He stands up and clears his throat, aware of our closeness. I run my eyes through his upper-half and realize that he’s wearing a pair of black sweat-pants, nothing more.

‘Yeah’, I answer in a nervous tone. He’s broader than I imagined, but not in a rough, aggressive way. Every angle of his body is strongly pronounced and every curve is finely outlined, making him look powerful and fierce, slender and graceful at the same time. I shake my head, coming out of the blankets and standing up as well, Bucky’s eyes following my every sluggish movement. I smile at him to disperse the tense atmosphere. ‘Let’s get you some breakfast’, I say nonchalantly.

‘It’s fine, I’m not hungry’, he smiles back at me, trying to convince me, but failing as usual. ‘I better leave anyways, you gotta go to work and I should– I have to–’, he crosses his arms in front of his chest, covering his exposed skin, and the sight of his muscles flexing makes me gulp. ‘Working out would help now’, I frown, because it doesn’t matter how much I want to believe that he’s the fitness kind of guy (he wouldn’t look like that if he wasn’t, to be honest), he means something else by saying he has to ‘work out’. I know him, I’ve been with him long enough to decode the meaning of his slight gestures, his body language and his tones. 

‘What do you mean? Help with what?’, I ask, tilting my head a little.

‘Spending energy, and even skipping meals reduces the chances that I…’, he trails, embarrassed, I notice. He purses his lips, the implications finally making sense; he doesn’t sleep, or eats what he needs because it weakens him, and if he’s weak, it’s less likely that last night’s incidents happen frequently. Oh, Bucky. 

‘You can’t keep doing that, you need proper nutrition and rest, you could get sick’, I explain and walk around the mattress towards him.

‘I won’t’, he sounds certain of it. ‘Part of my enhancements come from a special kind of serum, it improved everything about me, physically at least. It turned me into a super soldier. I don’t get tired easily, I can go on days and days without food or sleep, but also my metabolism is quicker than an average man’s and I need more supplies to make it up to it’, what I understand of the last part is that he must consume more than normal people, and he’s not even getting it. ‘It’s a side effect, I guess’, he shrugs. I’m having none of that.

‘Special serum or nor, you’re still human, and you have to take care of your health’, my scolding tone makes him chuckle and nod. ‘Now, go get some eggs and flour, I’ll make us pancakes for breakfast and that super soldier metabolism of yours will need more than a few ones’, I still have a couple of hours before I have to leave to work, so making sure that Bucky eats well, put on my uniform and be riding on my bicycle twenty minutes before ten won’t be a challenge. I hope.

‘Yes, ma’am’, he’s mocking me now, a playful grin on his face. I laugh and he heads out of my apartment. 

We do eat pancakes and I’m happy that Bucky is finally eating well. I don’t count how many, that would be rude of me, but I’m sure he eats four times what I do, and he looks happy too. Once satisfied, we head to our daily business; he escorts me to the parking lot and wishes me a good day. I don’t know what he’s going to do, maybe work out after all, maybe he’ll take a long walk, or stay home listening to Stevie Wonder on the boombox. I can’t stop myself from smiling when I picture us back in the mattress, clinging to each other, his soul finding comfort and safety on mine, I shudder at the memory of a consuming blue, so mesmerizing and tender, embracing me, but this fragile image breaks into million pieces when the blue turns red and the man becomes a machine. The Winter Soldier was killing me and Bucky wasn’t there to protect me; he left, he didn’t come back, he left me alone. I saw the war still burning inside his eyes, I felt the rage flowing through his veins and the ice tearing apart what was left of his humanity. He was just the weapon, the poppet, no longer Bucky. He died too. The day at the café passes by slowly, faster than an eternal second, and I’m trapped inside the never-ending circles of the world. I’m being transported to that rainy day on the bench, the demons I thought dead hunt my mind once again and the same emptiness leaves me breathless. It’s tomorrow before I forget yesterday, the voices talking to me are like ghosts shouting from the back of my mind, they’re telling me to run and hide, they’re telling me to stay and fight, they’re telling me to live and die in his arms. The sun spins around me, his bright silhouette is the only thing grounding me to reality, his occasional touches giving back the life my body’s starting to lose and his presence dissipating the fog where the demons await. He’s like a bouquet of sunrays, melting the coldness of the city and driving away my fears, it’s only in his company that I’m capable of setting free from the voices’ chains, he reminds me who I am with him, who he’s with me, and most important, who he’s not. He’s not a murderer, he’d never willingly hurt me and he’s not a monster. But it doesn’t matter how many times I repeat to myself that he’s still him, something doesn’t feel right, like a very fragile piece of our wholeness was broken, and the brightest of his smiles is not enough to fix it.

Since he shared what happened to him, already two weeks ago, I have a better idea of what’s off the table, weather are conversation subjects, movies or even songs, I’m very careful of what I show or say to him. I avoid mirrors, I don’t want to see the bruise of my neck, and I’ve been wearing scarfs and pashminas, jackets and sweaters, anything to hide it from Bucky. He doesn’t need to feel guilty about this, he has enough to deal with; he tries to cover his metal arm with the same effort. We’re even, at least when it comes to hiding things that could hurt the other. He hasn’t relapsed, he hasn’t had nightmares and his demeanor has changed. He’s been sleeping in his apartment, from seven to eight hours per night, according to him, he’s been eaten properly, three, sometimes five meals a day, and he’s been spending more time on his own. It helps him to clear his mind, he says, he’s trying to figure out his own self, who he wants to be, the things he’s willing to try and how far he can push. Personal space provides equilibrium and individuality, and even tough I would deny it if he ever asked me, I’m hesitant of letting him touch me, a slight brush of his fingers or a sudden proximity makes me uncomfortable. I can say he feels the same way, and although he’s never been the affectionate kind, he seems to understand that I need space too. 

‘Did you like it?’, I ask him on the next Friday night. I’ve introduced him to Disney movies, 'Peter Pan' and 'The Sword in the Stone' to begin with, and he reacts quiet enthusiastically to them, concluding that Merlin’s annoying beard and Archimedes grumpiness are the funniest aspects of the movie while Wendy’s behavior results stupid to him and drunk Smee entertaining. 'Mulan' is not the exception to mixed opinions.

‘Yeah’, he has a cheerful smile playing on his features. We’re sitting in our habitual spots; coffee cups have been filled and the ice-cream has been eaten. ‘Mushu was my favorite one, he’s hilarious’, he did laugh at the scene where Mushu’s wearing the pink apron. ‘But’, he pauses to emphasize his next words. ‘Mulan is the best one, so brave and honorable, and loyal, she’s the greatest warrior of all times, badass’, I can see that he’s truly impressed with the character. I’m glad and relieved. His excitement encourages me to lead us into a new, but probably required area: literature. 

‘The Mulan from the movie is based on a ballad that tells the story of a woman named Hua Mulan, a legendary Chinese warrior who took the place of his father in the army’, my reference makes him open his eyes in an impressed expression. 

‘Tell me more about that’, his request makes me smile. ‘Please’, his genuine curiosity prompting an eagerly welcomed subject. I tell him all I know about the ballad and more, like how many of the movies I’ve watched are based in novels, real life or fantasy, which ones I like the most and why, then I start to talk about the books I’ve read, the poems and tales, my favorite authors, and more, so much more. He listens attentively, he always does, and I’m almost sure that he shares the thrilling sensation running thought my veins when I talk about these stories. I don’t know if he’s read them, or remembers reading them, but I can’t stop myself from talking. Reading has always been special to me, private, and far from a diversion, it’s a delight. I tell him about Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, Verne and Wells, about Tolkien and Lewis, Poe and Le Fa Nu, about Brönte and Austen, Shelley and Woolf. The names go on, so the hours, I drown him with my voice and he doesn’t mind, he asks a question every once in a while, he nods and smiles when he agrees or something’s funny and when I finish, he has a guess what kind of books I'm really into. It’s down by the time our conversation ends, he shows interest in some titles I mention and asks if I have them. 

‘No’, I look down while we walk towards the door, honestly sad about the answer. His shoulders fall a little in disappointment too and I add: ‘We can go to a book store, I’m sure they’ll have a few classics’, we’re standing under the threshold of the door and he turns, a question in his eyes.

‘Do you think I can find history books?’, his tone is nervous, it's similar to the one of the night he asked about World War II movies. I hope it doesn’t end the same way.

‘Less likely, and most of them will be about national history’. On my first days in Bucharest, I visited the The National Library and the Central University Library, daring to test my domain of the language with selective topics (not my greatest idea). Truth is, I owe my knowledge of the country’s history and traditions to their assorted selection. I don’t think Bucky intends to learn about it, he’s looking for universal history books, more specifically, the history he missed living. I open the door and he steps outside, a worried frown appears on my face. ‘Are you going to be alright?’.

‘I don’t know’, he looks down, distressed. Maybe it’s a bad idea, he knows that, but he’s willing to try, and he hopes I understand. I nod. ‘You’re working today?’, his voice turns gentler, the diffidence fading away as his eyes find their way to mine.

‘No, my boss will be out of town for a few of days’, I shrug and his lips curve into a teasing grin.

‘You’ve been having a lot of days off’, he points out, narrowing his eyes in a fake suspicious expression that steals a chuckle from my mouth.

‘I’m not complaining’, really, I’m not. It looks like I could use some of my free hours to sleep right now.

‘Neither I am’, he’s smiling coyly at me now. He steps a little closer, his imposing figure making me hyperaware of our size difference. He has the kind of strength that is meant to protect, to save, to embrace, the one that provides shelter and warmth, the kind of strength that deranges into power to submit, to shred, to destroy. He could snap my neck in one swift motion of his arm, he could tear apart every part of my body within seconds, he could end with my existence in the next breath I take and I would be facing whatever there is after death, if there’s anything at all, but instead of bringing to life my cruelest thoughts, he leans down to place a kiss on my cheek and whispers a ‘I’ll see you later’ against my cheekbone. My throat runs dry. I nod and he walks away, heading downstairs and probably out of the building.

The moment I look back at my bed, my tiredness overcomes my hunger and intentions to take a shower and drags my lifeless body to the cozy insides of the blankets. I take a long nap, my mind is worn-out and doesn’t let me dive into dreams, and if I do dream, I can’t remember what about. It’s dinner time when I wake up and my stomach is demanding to be fed. My culinary skills are improving, I’m becoming more creative with the dishes (if you can call them that) and much to my surprise, they’re good. Today I feel like having pasta, so I get ready to go out to buy what I need. I put on a jacket and boots because it’s cold. I glance over Bucky’s door on my way to the staircase and frown. I haven’t heard him and he hasn’t knocked at my door; he must be sleeping. Maybe I’ll see him until tomorrow and we’ll have breakfast together, we can even go to the lake again, or maybe he will slam my door open and strangle me, I’ll scream, begging him to stop and come back to me, and he won’t listen. He will kill me. These thoughts have been wondering in my mind since the night he attacked me, and the little twinge of panic has been growing, making me feel uneasy in his presence. The sound of my steps walking downstairs is suddenly too loud, it shakes my head and brings back my attention. Once outside, a freezing breeze clashes against my cheeks, my eyes meet with early Christmas lights and happy melodies invade my ears. I bet the snow will start falling any time soon now, and it excites me, streets painted in white feel oddly familiar, a wintry landscape fills my soul with merry echoes of laughs and warm embraces, and if I let my eyes close for a moment, I can picture a dancer in the ice, her dress is turquoise, waving harmoniously and glowing with powder-blue light, her bright figure contrasts with her jet-black hair and she moves like a snowflake dancing in the wind. 

Back in my apartment, the spinach noodles are cooked and I’m working on a coriander cream sauce. I eat in silence, no music playing to make me company and when I’m finished, I hear Bucky’s door being closed, followed by his steps heading downstairs. I know he’s not going to come back soon and he doesn’t have to tell me why because the answer it’s quite simple; it’s safer. He’s anxious, he prefers to spend the night outside, he needs that space and time to stop thinking, remembering, and when he feels comfortable enough, he will come back. He always does. I take off my clothes and quickly put on my pajamas, reaching out to my Walkman, ready to lull myself to sleep. As hard as it is to believe, The Beatles are the only band that relaxes me enough to put down to sleep, the reason remains unknown to me. My eyelids fall heavily, a surprising tiredness takes over my body and sends my mind to a dark place, far away from the sunrays.

It’s snowing, a white path lays before my eyes, the stars are huge diamonds embellishing the sky and I’m naked, walking across a frozen land. My skin melts the snow, my fingertips caress the ice and turn it into flames, like a phoenix. The blood running through my veins burns me inside out, the taste of ashes dries my mouth and when I look back, everything is untouched, consumed by fire and ice, buried alive in ablaze snow. I keep walking until the trees become high buildings and the artificial lights replace the stars, my feet move mechanically and stop when I’m in front of my building, a simple blink transporting me to the rooftop. Bucky’s standing near the ledge, like he always does when we’re sitting next to each other, our eyes on the city, towards the west, towards the setting sun, and he’s murmuring hollow paradoxes. He whispers life breathing into death and fire liquefied on ice, he turns and looks at me, the blue of his orbits blending with the red star on his metal arm shining with murderous light. The brightest star of all. It takes another blink to find myself in front of him, and a last one to feel a cold warmth spread inside my chest; he’s holding a gun against my heart and he shoots again, and again, and again. He shoots me until he gets enough, and then he leaves me half dead, bathed in moonlight, covered in blood, alive enough to see him walking away. I wake up in a sharp gasp, taking my hands up to my chest almost immediately, prepared to feel the wet and sticky surface, but when I look down, there’s no blood, no red, no gun. My lungs are fighting to bring oxygen to them, but it’s too slippery. It takes me countless minutes to catch my breath, I’m dizzy and disoriented, the room spins in infinite circles and I’m surrounded by shapeless figures. I wave of nausea forces me to stand up and run towards the bathroom, falling on my knees in front of the toilette and emptying my already drained stomach. I cough when everything’s out and stand up, washing my mouth, but when I look at my hands, all I see is red. The salty taste of sweat falling from my forehead mixes with the metallic one coming out of my nose. I grunt in frustration; I can’t take a shower because the water’s going to be practically frozen at this hour, the only thing I can do is to clean myself and hope I don’t look like a living dead blue-haired midget. 

My muscles feel like they’re snaked tightly around my bones, my nerves are blossoming out on my skin and every inch of my body is sore. Some fresh air might help me, and before I let my brain hesitate about my final decision, I’m getting dressed. I grab a small bag and my helmet; I’m planning to spend all day somewhere else and things like warm clothes, my inhaler and its replacement, have to be considered. I don’t let myself think too much when I turn the doorknob and step out of my apartment, but Zeus, as merciful as he is, welcomes my humble intentions with a pair of caring, blue eyes and a brunette head making their way upstairs. Bucky’s coming back. As soon as he spots me, his eyes widen in utter concern. I must look worse than I imagined.

‘What the–? Robin, are you–?’.

‘It’s not important’, my voice is hoarse, but it still has the force to interrupt him. He frowns and examines my body from head to toe, looking in vain for any injury; my wounds are internal, invisible. They don’t exist. I clear my throat, but it burns as I speak out my next words. ‘How are _you_ feeling?’, my question switches the direction of the worry and he sighs, giving up to my evasion.

‘Better’, he lies to me, he’s exhausted, he probably hasn’t sleep, and he’s not better. We stare at each other for everlasting seconds, we don’t dare to move, to speak, to look away. Maybe we’re not even breathing. ‘Wanna come over? I finally managed the pancakes thing’, he tries to curve his lips and smile, but he’s too tired to even do that.

‘I was heading out, actually’, I gesture my helmet and he looks down, saddened. ‘I’ll be back for dinner’, I lie to him, I don’t know when I’ll be back, I’ll probably spend the night out too, and he knows it, but he choses to believe me.

‘Okay’, I nod and step forward, stopping in front of him. He’s standing a couple of steps down, so he lifts his head a little to look right into my eyes. ‘Be careful’, he says and kisses my cheek, lingering there for a brief moment before walking towards his apartment. It’s not a loving fluttering in my chest what sinks me down the floor, but the terror that his closeness provokes. The mere contact of his skin sends waves of fear through all my body, breaking into every corner, devouring me, weakening me. I can’t shake this disturbing feeling, I’m not at peace anymore, and being with him makes my heart ache more than when he’s away. I feel hunted by his blind rage, I can smell the blood, fresh and sweet, and feel his gun against my chest. I keep going, walking faster and firmly, telling myself that I need this, that sharing the same space it’s dangerous, that a wall between us it’s not enough. I run out of the building, I don’t look back, and I don’t see Bucky for the next two days. I stay in a hotel at the outsides of the city, sleepless nights and miserable hours keep me prisoner of my own fear. Yes, I’m avoiding him. I don’t want to see him, to even look at him from the distance or hear his voice. Yes, he might suspect it. I told him I had several days off, we could have enjoyed that time, cherished it, but here I am, running away from him, and yes, it hurts. All I can think of it’s him. His loving eyes turned murderous red and his gentle hands chocking me until he kills me. I try to remember how his warm body feels by my side, his fingers intertwined with mine, his voice whispering my name, begging me to stay, stay with him forever, but there’s nothing left, just death and ice. 

His face lights up when he bumps into me at the entrance of our building when I come back.

‘Hey’, he says, and I swear his voice rings with joy. His eyes give away how happy he feels to see me, that growing emotion enlightening his soul. He’s dripping bliss and sunlight. He’s beautiful. ‘I was heading to your apartment’, he announces and lifts a bag of takeaway boxes. ‘Got shwarma’. Something inside of me constricts. He waits for my answer, but I don’t have one, I’m torn between my fears and my true feelings. He’s excited to spend time with me, to be with me again, and I want to tell him that I missed him too although it was just two days that we didn’t see each other, that I want to listen to Queen and Elvis with him, but I can’t. 

‘I’m really tired’, there’s the lie again. I’m spitting poison, like a snake. The sights of him angry, lost and desperate are devastating, but they’re nothing compared to the one I witness when his heart tears in half once those words come out of my mouth. Disappointment, hurt, confusion, they erase the light surrounding him. ‘Maybe tomorrow?’, I try, but he’s aware of my hypocrisy.

‘Yeah, sure thing’, he smiles, as fake as my words. ‘Have a good night’, he says, just being polite. He turns around and walks out of the building. I suppress the urge to go after him and apologize, but he’s gone before I finish thinking that possibility. I let him go.

I keep avoiding him for the rest of the week, making poor excuses that he doesn’t buy, turning down dinner invitations, being careful to prevent sudden meetings, and just as I’d once do everything to see him smile, to take away his always uneasy attitude and help him carry the invisible weight on his shoulders, I’m doing everything now to escape from his menacing presence and two-faced nature. My dreams keep me hidden, I don’t have anywhere else to go, I’m trapped here, like an animal, like him. It’s Friday night and I go outside to the balcony to breathe in some wet city smell. It’s cold and it’s raining, and I should be with him. We should be sitting on the mattress, eating Fruit bars and ice-cream, watching ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’ because it’s that time of the year, because I want him to watch it with me. Together. The two of us and nothing more. Nothing matters more than us. I close my eyes and I daydream about him, his smile playing behind my eyelids, so vivid and sunny. We’re listening to The Rolling Stones and he’s singing ‘She’s like a rainbow’ to me. He knows the lyrics; it’s his favorite song, after all. I ask him why does he like it so much, but just when I’m about to hear the answer, someone whispers my name. It sounds like his voice, velvety and deep. I adore the sound of my name on his lips, he seems to caress it, and if he looks at me when he’s saying it, every letter breaks into colors. 

‘Robin…’. It’s him. Bucky’s call makes me open my eyes and look for him. He’s standing in the middle of his balcony, his arms stick to his sides, and I flash back to that evening when I told him my name. ‘ _I’m Robin_ ’, he stopped walking. ‘ _Like the bird_ ’, he said. He was so scared of me, of talking to me, and realizing that he’s feeling that way now, after all we’ve been through, all we’ve done to help him, is the worst nightmare that I could bring to life. ‘What’s happening?’, he’s not looking at me, his eyes are down and his shoulders shrunken. Ashamed, frightened, defeated. ‘I don’t– I don’t understand…’, the agony in his voice it’s too much. I have to tell him about my dreams, I have to explain to him that I don’t mean to hurt him, even though I’m doing it already, that I just need to clear my head and give my it some time to really process the whole true of his identity, his past and his actions. I have to tell him because he deserves to know. _I_ owe him that.

‘I don’t know what– why do I feel like this’, liar. I’m a liar, the filthiest one on earth. He looks up and I take a deep breath, gathering as much courage as I can and walking towards the bar separating our balconies. He does the same, taking the last steps until he’s facing me. I lift my left hand and hold it open to him, trusting that he’ll understand, and he does, but hesitates for a moment. Our hearts are beating in synch, our breaths are both weak and shaky, and our souls connect when he places his right palm against mine. ‘I’ve been having these dreams about– about that night and I can’t– I’m– I’m scared’, he frowns and I slide my fingers between his. The size difference is ridiculously huge.

‘You can tell me’, he says. His thumb draws circles over my skin. ‘Anything’, he reassures. I have to tell him. Say it. He deserves to know. Just say it.

‘I don’t want you to be near me’, he freezes under my touch. His face distorts in horror, his breathing turns frantic and his body shakes in panic. ‘I’m afraid that you do it again, hurt me’, if that’s the truth, why does it feel so wrong to say it? There’s a crack in the space between us, the sparks and fictions are swallowed by it, leaving us naked, exposed. Vulnerable. He hasn’t removed his hand from mine, and I give his fingers a slight squeeze to feel him, make sure he’s still here and he’s real. ‘I need time’, I plead. He wraps my hand with his so much bigger one and guides it to his face, lovingly. I cup his jaw, stubbled and sharp, he’s trembling with warmth and I rub his cheek to soothe his fear. He tilts his head, leaning into my touch, and his lips graze over my palm, gentler than the flutter of a butterfly, then he looks at me with watery eyes, so beautiful and wretched.

‘I’ll keep my distance, I promise’, but I don’t want him to keep distance, I want him to kiss my cheek and tell me he’s never going to let me go. The words hitch in my throat, and when he lets go of my hand, my skin feels suddenly cold. 

He walks backwards, unable to tear his eyes off me, and I stay there, watching him take half my life, half my heart, half my soul with him. The blue turns black, the rain becomes snow, the hours turn into days and days turn into weeks. Everything we knew, everything we were, and what we almost had is gone. We settle in that old mutual acknowledge of each other’s presence, I know nothing about him anymore, what he does or where he goes, and it feels like we’re back to be a little more than strangers. He’s turning colorless, the shadows vanishing his features, his smile and his eyes. He’s keeping his promise, but the dreams haven’t stop, the nightmares, the demons. I die in a different way every night. Choked, stabbed, shot. He makes me beg for my life, he grins and laughs, telling me how pathetic I am, how much it annoys him when I cry. He rejoices in my pain, in my blood, in my shattered body, and he looks glorious when he does. He’s full of light and knifes. The Winter Soldier kills me every night, and I lose Bucky every day. I’m killing myself now. The bright colors leave my world too, the music doesn’t sound like music, the images playing in the movies doesn’t make sense, my bicycle doesn’t remember the way back home because I have no home to go back to. I’m living a motorized life. Wake up, eat and work. I’m made of systems. Morning, day and night. I’m no human, just a humanoid body. Robin is no longer a person, it’s just a name, a set of sounds that no one whispers to the air. I think it’s Christmas, but it’s New Year’s already. The dates get lost in my inner time tracker, I see them pass by me like they’re not different from other days, like they mean nothing. Nothing means nothing. Yesterday, five years ago, now. How did it get so late so soon? And then, another not so very special day, a knock on my door startles me while I’m washing the dishes. It can’t be him, I heard his door closing and his heavy steps rushing downstairs at least twenty minutes ago. I dry my hands and walk towards the door, finding a blonde man standing in front of me with two big boxes in his arms when I open it. 

‘Miss Dawson?’, he asks. There’s a weird tone in his voice, not entirely harsh, but definitely not soft.

‘Yes?’, I frown, not out of estrangement. I know this man; he’s the footman. _Their_ footman. He hands the boxes to me, white gift wrap and silver ribbons, they could have passed for late Christmas presents or early–

‘Mr. Liev Vronzky and Miss Irina Vronzkaya wish you a happy birthday’, and I feel my legs go limp. Today’s my 24th birthday and they’re very gentile and thoughtful for remembering it this particular year. The rest of my life, the previous 23 years, they made sure that this day wasn’t important, not even worth to mention. A wave of anger rises up my body. I know why they’re doing this. Irina’s boredom and Liev’s wicked mind transcended to false pity. They’ve found me, they’re torturing me, and they’re enjoying it. The footman gives me an exasperated look and I realize that he’s still waiting for me to do something stupid like accepting their gifts. So I do because, let’s be honest, I have nothing to lose. ‘Have a good day, Miss’, he says and bows, just like the last time, and walks away.

I step back inside the apartment and place the boxes on the table. I consider opening them now, but I have to leave for work or I’ll be late. Routines first. I stopped using the bicycle a few days ago because of the snow, not even the helmet, my daily protective layer made of thousands of jackets and sweaters, and my snow boots could put on a good fight against the weather. The bus suits my needs. Sitting on the place next to the window, the picture of the white city is unpleasant to my eyes, there’s no magical winter there, just cold streets and hateful snow; there are no thoughts, happy or sad, there’s no longing or melancholy, just a lonesome path. ‘ _California dreamin’ on such a winter’s day_ ’. The song plays in my head for the rest of the road. I’m greeted by Mr. Tanase’s effusive hug and good wishes when I walk in the café, even Costin prepares me a ‘special’ cup of coffee, and then we get back to work. Bring the orders, pick up the empty cups and smile. Costumers arrive, customers leave, the day I was born goes by irrelevantly. Why do I feel so miserable? A pair of lunatic twins sent me nicely wrapped birthday presents with their weird footman and my boss wishes me nothing but good things in my life, like success and happiness. I’m miserable because none of it feels real, because I do want to eat the sweetest cake and blow the candles, I want to be hugged and cared for, but I want him to be with me when I do, I want it to be him the one who hugs me and cares for me. I’m miserable because I’m a liar and a coward, because I don’t have nightmares anymore and I haven’t told him. I’m letting him think I’m fine without him and my life works wonderfully, but that’s the world’s biggest lie. I’m only surviving, I’m lost and I miss him, I care about him more than anything else and the right word to all of that remains unspoken because it’s dangerous, even in my deepest thoughts.

‘ _The ice rink near the Cișmigiu Lake is a lovely place to go this time of the year_ ’, Mr. Tanase says out of nowhere as we gather the remaining dirty dishes. His statement takes me aback, I don’t understand its meaning, or what his intentions are. ‘ _You should visit it_ ’, I frown and he smiles widely. ‘ _It’s meant to share with someone special_ ’, I feel the blood burning in my cheeks and he laughs at my flustered expression. Mr. Tanase’s words hit the right spot, though, shaking my stubborn head and shoving some sense on it. This could be a chance to fix everything, to put our scattered pieces back in place; it’s a way back to him, back home.

And I run back to my building, in a metaphoric way because my lungs can’t handle that kind of passionate activity. The bus drives faster, maybe the guy has the same hurry as me and our purposes unify so we can find the light at the end of the tunnel. How romantic. It takes me longer to get to my apartment, the stairs are an old and known enemy that always seems determined to frustrate my plans, or aggravate my respiratory system, for that matter. Once I reach my floor and open the door of my apartment, the energy becomes anxiety, all my insecurities fill the air and I’m not sure of what I have to do. Puzzlement, tiredness and fear stick my feet to the ground, they consume me, they weaken my will. I take a deep breath, telling myself that I must be brave, that I have to tell him and bring him back to me. The boxes on the table guide me on the active direction and I step closer, taking the biggest one in my hands and sitting down to unwrap it. It’s Liev’s, and it’s a gorgeous, light-blue dress. Damn him. He’s evil enough to take the time to look for a replica of the dress I wore one summer’s day when I was ten and cynical enough to give it to me as gift. There’s small card at the bottom of the box. It says: ‘ _Ya nadeyus', vam ponravitsya vash den'. My skoro uvidimsya_ ’. Damn him twice. I put the dress aside and take the other box, not enthusiastic in the slightest. It’s from Irina, I can tell for the green cellophane paper that hides the real gift inside the fine leaves; she knows I hate it. But my annoyance disappears when I see what her gift is. A picture. A picture of a little black-haired girl and someone long lost and loved. They look happy, he’s kissing her cheek and she’s laughing, her short arms around his neck and her light-blue dress matching the sky. A single tear runs down my cheek, a heavy sob escapes from my mouth when I turn around the picture and read ‘ _I love you, daddy_ ’ handwritten with pink crayon. Evil bitch. She’s crueler than I thought. They’re both cruel and evil, and I’m stupid because I know very well that they’ve always loved to see me suffering, and still, I accepted their gifts.

I stand up and walk towards the balcony door. I need cold air to dry my tears and more loneliness to forget my pain. I’d like to blame them for ruining my birthday, I’d like to blame them for every tragedy of my life, but I would be sparing them. Blaming them means that there’s the possibility of forgiveness, and they don’t deserve that; blaming them means the lost of _her_ memory, and she deserves better. I put my hands on the bar and spot a small box on the left extreme of it. It’s a “Fritt Karamell Toffee’ box. I frown in confusion; I didn’t leave it here. I don’t eat Fritt Bars anymore, I don't eat sweet things, it’s more likely that Bucky left it there or– Bucky left it there. I take the box in rushed movements and my mouth hangs open when I see what’s inside. It’s a necklace, glowing, beautiful, a star that looks like a snowflake made of diamonds and a fine chain made of white gold. The brightest star of all. A winter star. I laugh in disbelief. I don’t know how he knew, I never told him when my birthday was, and I don't know where he got it from, but this is his gift to me. He wrote ' _Happy Birthday_ ' on one of the sides of the box, discreetly, and he left a note as well. ' _Ya vernus' k tebe_ ’. My chest swallows my heart, I can hear my ribs cracking, I feel the familiar taste of blood on my tongue and when everything makes sense, there's no soul holding up my body. Bucky’s gone. He wouldn’t be talking about coming back if he hadn’t left. I run towards his apartment, locking the necklace inside my hand with all my strength, hopeful that I’m wrong, and when I’m about to knock, I notice the door is not completely closed. His door is unlocked. Bucky never leaves his door unlocked since that day he kicked it open, carrying me after I had an asthma attack. I walk in the room and look around. The air of my lungs burst out at the sight of the emptyness before my eyes. His clothes are gone. There are just a couple of shirts hanging on the closet, and I remember how pleased he looked when he told me he had gotten new and ‘cool’ clothes. I head to the kitchen and open the fridge. There’s no food. He always has milk, eggs and chicken, at least. No vegetables, he doesn’t like them. I let out another heavy sob and fall on my knees. I did this. He left and I let him go. I don’t know where and I don’t know when is he coming back. I did this to us because I was weak and because I didn't trust him. I failed him and he left. I stand up slowly, too absent, walk towards his bed, perfectly made, and lay on it, too broken. It's still warm and it smells like him. Even if can't remember when was the last time I saw him, I do remember what he smells like; soap and cotton, fresh skin and something else I never quite place. Something his. My sobs become cries, pleas, gasps. I curl into fetal position and let the hollow he left behind surround me with its shadow. Maybe I'm not alone, but I'm lonely all the while. 

_Come back. Come back to me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MRSBARNES IS BACK!!! Jesus freacking Christ, it feels like it's been an eternity since I last updated. Thank you for waiting so long, and, well, I have many things to share with you. First, YES, Bucky left (cries), second, NO, he won't come back soon, third, something great and awful is going to happen in the next three chapters. Stay tuned. Also, my dear friend hasusamimi made more beautiful fan arts of Robin, PLEASE check [them](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/148616188582/more-fanarts-beautiful) out! The [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pzj_ZLcYE5w) that inspired this chapter makes me cry, so if you want to share my misery and feel a little brokenhearted, you can die with honor and listen to it. And... I think that's all hahaha wait! No! I wanted to ask you: do you want me to post a short preview of the following chapters? I would post them on my Tumblr blog. Let me know what you think :) BIG THANKS, I hope you like this one :) I'm excited to see your comments or answer your questions. I've missed you! :'( Have a wonderful night!
> 
> PS: Chapter 14 is already on its way, so I might update sooner than later :P


	14. I Was Wrong

There are different kinds of pain. There’s sharp pain, it stings, like a fresh cut on your flesh, or millions of them; silent pain, it tests how much you can endure without screaming, how much they can torture you until you bleed, until you breathe, until you break; grueling pain, the one you feel when your muscles are sore and twisted after running for days without stopping, after you’ve been fighting for too long. And there’s frantic pain, the one that is born from chaos, the unknown position of a mind on its own brain, and the agony to find its place. They’re physical and mental pain. Battle wounds, bullet burns and screw-up thoughts. But what’s the name of that ache in your heart when you dream about her dancing, smiling at you and laughing, just to wake up and find out there’s no music playing anymore, what’s the kind of pain you feel when you see her loose her hair from the distance and you can’t tell her how beautiful she is, what’s the fucking name of this longing for her fresh skin and her apple smell and her blueness and the whole of her. I grunt and let out a frustrated sigh, my heavy exhale turning into vapor into the cold air. She’s been in my head this way for weeks, her childish features growing faint and the wall separating us getting thicker every day. She did this to me. She smiled at me that rainbow smile of hers in the first place, then she talked to me, she cared for me and made me _feel_. And I hurt her, forced her to smile at me when all she felt was fear, I kissed her cheek when my mere touch must have terrified her. Fucking blinding hope. Fucking cowardice. Fucking selfishness. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

I rushed towards the rooftop after I left the “Fritt Karamell Toffee” box in her balcony and at some point I remembered that I left my door half open, too absent-minded to notice, but I didn’t care, it didn’t matter anymore. I heard her crying hours later and I came back, walking inside my apartment to find her there, curled in my bed, sleeping weakly, traces of fat tears that ran down her cheeks not long ago saddening her features. I couldn’t leave her, I’m a coward, the same coward who didn’t take the last ten steps to our floor and hid under the stairs that very morning at the sound of a stranger’s voice talking to her. ‘ _Mr. Liev Vronzky and Miss Irina Vronzkaya wish you a happy birthday_ ’, and a moment later, a blond, slouch, middle aged man was walking downstairs. Who the hell was he? Who the hell where they? Liev and Irina. Friends? Family? She’s never mentioned them, but they’re Russian, I’m sure of that and I’m sure they’re related to Robin. Her lullaby is Russian, and she speaks the language perfectly, but I can’t assure anything, I know nothing about her past or her family, what’s her relation with them and the country, and such ignorance makes me realize that what I know are simply things I’ve seen. The things she likes and the ones she doesn’t, her expressions, her tones, the change of light in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks. Her birthday. January 13th. Other than that, she’s a secret, and knowing her so well shouldn’t feel like she’s a stranger. I don’t want to think of her like that, but she is, I’m looking at her right now and I can’t help but reach out to her because she’s looks so distant.

She’s wearing the necklace. I found it a couple of weeks ago while I was walking through the frozen gardens of the Cișmigiu Lake. Deep drowned in my thoughts, heading to the building I live in, no longer home, I saw a light-blue sparkle that stopped me on my tracks; it was a star, a snowflake, something in between, something that reminded me of her. It was laying still on the snow, crystal clear, bathed in moonlight, a soft fire, and in that moment, I missed her. Summer breeze, tinkerbell and marshmallow. I craved for every goddamned part of her wholeness, my own skin yearning for her touch and my eyes looking for her fragile figure everywhere, never to be found. I didn’t think twice and picked up the jewelry piece, not even caring who did it belong to before, since when or why it was there, it was meant to be hers. I didn’t have the guts to give it to her until I heard it was her birthday, and she’s wearing it, and I’m a coward, and she’s sleeping and I’m going to leave her.

I have to leave her, but I’m still looking at her. _Rainbow Robin_. Blue hair and purple nails. _Robin_. Soft snores; adorable as hell. My fingers brush the creamy skin of her right cheek, but I don’t dare to lean down and kiss her forehead just to breathe in as much of her apple smell as I can and feel the warmth of her body for I’m going to miss them more than ever. I fight against the urge, against the need and the pain. I care about her more than anything else, and it’s because I care that I can’t be selfish with her.

‘I will come back, little bird’, I whisper in the quietest of voices, my own ears struggling to hear it. ‘Wait for me, and I will come back’ I beg to her, stepping back and walking away. The door is closed, I don’t look back, and I leave every color behind that door, with her. My little bird. _Come back_. My rainbow girl. _Come back to me_. Her pleading voice echoes in the back of my mind, her calling clutching my heart. Why can’t she let me go? Why must she tear me in half? Goddamnit, I wish I didn’t have to do this, but I do. _I will come back to you_. I will, but right now, we need this; farther distance and longer time. I hid most of my stuff under the floor, taking food and some clothes to change every now and then because I have to be able to move freely from one country to another. It’s going to be a long road. 

This decision was made after our dreams started, she said she dreamt about me hurting her, and the same night I dreamt about Steve. He wasn’t just hurting me, but killing me, his fists clashing against my jaw and my blood staining the white star of his uniform with scarlet paint. I begged him to stop, I yelled at him that I didn’t want to fight with him, I screamed his name, but he didn’t listen, and when he looked at me, our places switched, I was the one wearing the scarlet color on my clothes, my metal arm was pressed strongly against his throat and his eyes closed as his last breath left his lungs. I had killed Steve. My best friend. The small kid of Brooklyn who became a hero, Captain America, my mission. No. My friend. The dream had been repeating over and over again until his face morphed into a more dangerous one, his blonde hair turned red and the shape of his body was redrawn in my mind. Natalia. Beautiful and deadly. Precious Natalia. The images of her, of us, from that first night I dreamt about her, that I remembered who she was, were replaced by warmer ones. There wasn’t just pain and lust, blood and sweat, I felt a twinge of something else, softer, gentler, and what I saw wasn’t somehow true, like there were missing scenes. It’s a two-faced monster overshadowing my dreams, or two monsters sharing a corner of my memories, and where Steve’s face has been decoded in the most parts, Natalia’s remains sketchy. I’ve read the files, but there’s no mention of her, she was erased from the records, even Steve is clearer than her, the memorial in the museum told me my story with Steve, and I can almost take in those memories, I can almost own them. 

I have to leave her so I can find someone else. _Why?_ Because it’s eating me alive, my days without blue became nights full of red, the weight of her absence and _her_ sudden harassment are depriving me from sleep. Moving, getting the hell out of Romania should be the right decision, it’s probably the best one, but I can’t bare to abandon her like that, I can’t be the kind of lonely I feel without her in my life, I can’t say goodbye. I have to be the soldier and the weapon in order to remember everything I did with the woman of the wild, red hair, what she was to me, if she was someone at all. There are no second thoughts when I walk out of the building, no hesitation on my feet, yet it takes me a brief moment of weakness to look back. _Robin_. My little bird. I’ll see you soon. _I will come back_. And as I turn around, I’m aware of what I’m doing, however it seems to me that the question is not why I’m leaving her behind, but how I’m going to go forward without her.

Bucharest disappears on the railroad, I avoid looking out of the window because I’m afraid I’ll break it, jump and walk back to the city. I read the files over and over again to focus my mind on my next destination. Găești. It’s just a blurry landscape, and sleepless miles take me to Brezoi. Climb down, eat, go back to the train, take the bus, and wait for either of them to arrive at Turda. Sometimes I sleep on the train or bus, some other times the smell of old sheets and dirty bathrooms keep me awake and angry because I could have save that money. Mission reports and secret projects, bus tickets and water bottles take the seat by my side on my way to Dej. I think’s it’s been a couple of weeks when I finally look out of the window, and I’m already in Borsa. Robin stole one, maybe two minutes on my mind; she never stays for long. Borders don’t exist if you are no one, when people wouldn’t remember your face, so arriving at Chernovtsy was insultingly easy. Trains and buses are comfortable, and even though I’ve been avoiding security cameras, I don’t feel quite out of the radar, that’s why the vehicle I choose to get to Ternopol is a bike. I might have stolen it, not caring about the brand, just the effectiveness. It’s safer somehow because I travel faster, almost unnoticed, and I make it to Vinnitsa in two days. I’m getting anxious all the way to Kiev. The speed invades my pulse, the harsh slamming of the wind against my face makes my skin drier and colder, but it doesn’t hurt. I can’t feel anything, my blood got mixed with the gasoline and is running through my veins like the wheels on the road. Such a strength, such a power. 

Kiev is covered in snow, just like Bucharest. She would like it. _Robin_. I shake my head as I climb down the bike, leaving it hidden between a bunch of shrubberies; I will still need it later. Right now, what I need is a shower, food and a couple of good hours of sleep. I can try, at least. Reading the files didn’t help me to clear my memories, Natalia’s face remains cloudy, even Steve’s grew fainter. There are just dates of missions completed by The Asset, bases and safe houses locations, and when I open the folders again, the papers are chaotic. I curse under my breath and head towards the motel in front of me. Just a couple of hours, a shower and food. That’s all I need, and then I’ll keep moving. Keep moving because I will be caught. _By whom?_ The sound of her crying and my fucked up nightmares. 

‘ _Good evening, sir_ ’, a blonde girl greets me as I enter the reception, her face lightens up at my approaching. I didn’t realize it was evening already. It feels like morning all the time. ‘ _How can I help you?_ ’, she asks in a polite tone. My Ukrainian is a little rusty, but I manage to speak out the correct words.

‘ _A single room, please_ ’, I say in a hoarse voice. I clear my throat and she nods.

‘ _Of course_ ’, she smiles and looks at me with too much happiness in her features. It gets me nervous. ‘ _How many nights are you staying?_ ’, she asks with a broader smile on her face and I frown. What the hell is wrong with her?

‘ _One_ ’, I take out the money, not caring about the cost, paying right away, desperate to tear her eyes off me. I look around the small room, the pale colors and moisture in the air surround me, making me dizzy and uneasy for no reason. My eyes wander through every corner looking for cameras or microphones or someone ready to shoot me. Out of instinct, my fingers graze over the rough material of my jeans, sliding to my back, my fingertips reaching for the two guns hidden there. There’s an old man sitting on a chair next to the only window, he’s reading the newspaper, and he’s a threat. Everyone in here might be working for the ones who want to take me back, undercover agents, normal people in disguise, tracking me, they want to take me back to them. I can take down 20, maybe 25, I have two P-36 on hand, the NRS-2, a GM-94 inside and a PP-2000 inside my back pack; I can take down the entire neighborhood. I shake my head again, my paranoia, or weariness, making me delusional. The voice of the the blonde girl, startles me and I rapidly remove my hands from the guns. Her green eyes have turned almost grey with light.

‘ _Here’s you key and your parking lot is in front of your room_ ’, she speaks to me with a note of tenderness in her tongue, and I hate it. She hands me the key and once I take it, I rush out of there. I got room number 19, and apparently it’s not near the reception, something I’m grateful for. Shower, eat, sleep. I repeat the instructions in my head as I slide the key inside the lock. Eat, shower, sleep. The instructions become commands when I face the single bed and the rest of the shitty room. Sleep, shower, eat. The order doesn’t matter. I just have to do one of them, and then get the hell out of here as soon as I can. 

I throw myself on the bed and fall asleep immediately. My ridiculous hurry has taken its toll, super solder or not, three weeks on the run drained every drop of adrenaline and will of my body. I don’t dream, and if I do, I can’t put in place the images of my mind, they’re too messy and quick. They’re shapeless until Steve’s face creeps its way behind my eyes; his smile is twisted by his grimaces. ‘ _I’m fine, Buck. Doesn’t even hurt that much_ ’. He’s so small and fragile. He has a bruise on his cheekbone, blood on his lips, and he’s wincing while I patch him up. ‘ _You gotta stop this, Steve_ ’. He lets out a weak chuckle. ‘ _Those guys won’t stop_ ’. I snort and he laughs, grabbing his sides because his ribs must be hurt as well. ‘ _You’re such a punk_ ’. I say in a half amused, half scolding tone. Little Steve, always the obstinate, heroic kid. When I open my eyes, I find myself surrounded by darkness, the sun long gone and the coldness of the exterior getting into the sheets under my body. It doesn’t bother me, I can’t feel it, but my muscles demand for hot water, so I stand up and walk towards the bathroom. It’s not bigger than my apartment’s in Bucharest, just big enough to allow me to move properly around it, and the worn-out blue of the walls reminds me of a brighter one. _Robin_. My little bird. How much I miss her this very second. I grunt, not standing my pity thoughts, taking out my clothes and stepping into the shower.

I actually sigh in relief as the streaming water runs down my head to my shoulders, my chest, my abdomen and beyond. Barely a year ago, I wouldn’t imagine this luxury, it never mattered if I was clean or dirty, of I was comfortable or in pain, there were more important things like killing people, getting the job done unnoticed and go back to ice. Life was not part of my existence, ordinary things were strange to me, I suffocated when I breathed, my sleep was full of nightmares, I had less control over my reactions than now. I was a fucked-up man with a more fucked-up story, no one to anybody, the days passing by tried to fit me in this world, but just as the images inside my head, I was cracked and formless. And then, I talked to that blue-haired girl who lived next to me. Her selfless smiles and her calm tone build, brick by brick, my trust in her. She trusted me more than I trusted myself, she gave me what I never thought worth to have; a chance to live, to be a kind of normal person, to be free. She said ‘ _Stay with me, be Bucky with me_ ’, but he said ‘ _I’m with you ‘till the end of the line_ ’, the other her said ‘ _You’re a good man_ ’, and my life crumbled back down. I’m not hers, his, someone else’s. I’m no one. _Who are you?_ Bucky, just Bucky.

Out of the shower, clean clothes on and shaved face in ten minutes. Go back to sleep and get some food later. I do sleep a few more hours before I walk out of the room, heading to a small diner next to the reception of the motel. I hope I don’t look like I normally do, and I think the shaving helped me because as I enter the local, just a couple of customers look at me. I walk towards the table on the farthest corner, the only waitress takes my order and leaving without paying much attention to me. I eat slowly because I don’t know when I’ll be able to sit and eat like this again, I still have a long way to go and better slow down while I can. I head back to the motel to return the keys of my room, but half the way, I feel a strong and sharp chill run up my spine, leaving me stuck to the ground; someone is watching me. I look around to detect any potential threat, narrowing my eyes to reach for the longest distance, my ears sensitize to identify sounds out of time and place, I flex my muscles, bending my knees and leaning forward, getting ready to attack or receive an attack from any direction. But nothing happens because once I spot the source of my uneasiness, the blond girl from the motel answers the only question I’ve silently formulated.

‘ _That’s old Masha_ ’, she came out of nowhere, stopping a few steps away from me and nodding at the figure in front of us; an old woman sitting in a rocking chair is gazing at me, awestruck, mesmerized, the grey color of her eyes is piercing and cold. I can feel it cutting my skin. I study her face, looking for any familiar signs, but I’m completely sure I’ve never seen her. She must be around 80, even more, there are pronounced wrinkles cracking her skin, her silver hair is messy and her clothes neglected. She couldn’t know who I am, I’m almost sure of that. ‘ _Be careful, she’s a little bit… eloquent_ ’, the girl warns. My eyes never tear off the woman and hers never turn away from my direction, like we’re stuck, like we know each other. ‘ _Have a good day, sir_ ’, I give the girl a tiny nod and I hear her walking away. I should go too, it’s getting late and I have to keep moving, so I move, leaving the woman behind. I focus on the route I’ll take out of Kiev on my way to the motel, my feet moving quickly while I trace imaginary lines on the roads in my head. It takes me less than five minutes to get to the room, less than ten seconds to open the door, grab my backpack and the keys. I have to keep moving, faster, always faster, but the person standing in front of me the moment I open the door to get out of here stops me cold in tracks.

‘ _You’re him_ ’, the old woman of the rocking chair whispers in a perfect Ukrainian, her face wearing the same terrified and shocking expression of our first encounter. She knows who I am. My breath hitches on my throat, preparing every sense and nerve to do whatever I need if she– ‘ _The Asset_ ’, those two words break through my soul. The Asset. Winter Soldier. Ghost. I tense again, ready to fight her, to kill her, my heart hammering against my chest and the adrenaline takes over my body. They’ve found me. Hydra. She’s one of them and she’s found me. I analyze my options, the panic clouding my reasoning, but I succeed to gather as much control as I can, retrieving my hands I didn’t notice were already hidden on my back, reaching out for the guns, and choosing to listen to her. Maybe she’d know something about what I’m looking for, after all, she was old enough to know and I could take her down before she even tried to make a move.

‘ _Who are you?_ ’, my voice is threatening and my eyes are narrowed, analyzing her face and the smallest of changes on her body and expression, but she’s unfazed, paralyzed before my door, too lost in her own thoughts to listen to my words. We battle in the space in silence, me trying to unravel this fucked up situation and her staring at me, imposing her presence to me.

‘ _You trained Natalia_ ’, shit. My blood freezes inside my veins, an unbearable wave of terror spreads all over my body, the picture of the redheaded woman flashing behind my eyes and my lungs twisting in scrutinizing pain at the sudden lack of oxygen. It’s not just that she identifies me, she knows what’s supposed to be known by anyone, not even me. She takes advantage of my inner conflict and she proceeds to murmur more disturbing words. ‘ _She was so beautiful, so flawless, my poor Nadia never had a chance against her, not even Yelena. She was meant to be more, they built her to be so, and they knew she needed, demanded more of them_ ’, the way she’s talking about her gives away adoration and fear, but a couple of names swim in the air she breathes. Nadia. Who the hell is she? And Yelena. That one is almost recognizable. The fact that she knows more than me it’s getting me beyond anxious. I could snap her neck at any second if she keeps babbling about it, but right when I’m about to cut off her rant, she hands me a bunch of old folders. I back away a few steps, two guns pointing at her within seconds. Ever the assassin. ‘ _I always knew this day would come sooner or later_ ’, she said, coming out of her previous trance. ‘ _This is everything I have_ ’, she gestures at the folders. ‘ _My name is Maria Trovaya_ ’, her name doesn’t mean anything. I don’t remember hearing it. She continues, ignoring my perplexity. ‘ _I was one of the scientists of the Department X, assigned to the Black Widow Ops Program, I worked along with Dr. Lyudmila Kudrin and developed a variant of the Super-Soldier Serum to enhance the recruits of the Red Room to make them stronger, resilient to disease and pain, to keep them from aging naturally through decades_ ’, it’s too much information, too much truth, but miraculously, I take nearly every word in. Department X, Black Widow, Red Room. I knew what they were, I remember them enough to clench my jaw and close my hands into fists at the memory of marbled ballerinas, bruises and pain, and a broken, little girl. The empty spaces of my mind are being filled by her words, and they scared me because I’m not ready to hear what’s next, although I already know it. ‘ _You were brought to polish them, to test them, but you did more, oh, so much more_ ’. That was the mission, to train them, break them if necessary so they could become the deadliest super spies the world had seen. But something happen, I wasn’t there just because I had to complete the mission, I wanted to be there, I wanted to stay because of her. Natalia. Her eyes giving me a ferocious look, fully focused on mine, ready to move, ready to kill. Natalia. Her eyes full of hunger and fierceness, begging me to touch her, undone her. Deadly Natalia. My hands slamming down her body, clutching her arms and legs until she yelped out in defeat. Precious Natalia. My hands scratching her skin, too desperate and furious, caressing her soft skin. Natalia Romanova. Her lips twisted in an evil grin. Natalia. Her lips pressed against mine, ever so quietly, so dominant. ‘ _I saw you with her and I knew she would be different from all the other little, fragile girls_ ’. She was mine and I was hers, in a bittersweet way, it was a consuming violence, a destructive need, but we were each other’s everything when we were not allowed to have a thing. ‘ _She was yours, and they took her from you_ ’, I can’t help but frown at the last words.

‘ _What do you mean?_ ’

‘ _Don’t believe everything you see in your dreams, not even your memories_ ’, her answer makes me grunt because I still don’t understand. What happened to her? How did she forget about me? About us? ‘ _They put it there, they rebuild your own mind, Asset_ ’, the old woman, Maria, explains as I finally take the folders. I forgot about them, but once in my hands, I lift them up, a thousand questions written on my face, only one coming out of my mouth.

‘ _And this?_ ’

‘ _Some of my notes for the Red Room experiments_ ’, she says nonchalantly, her expression relaxing, almost calm in my presence. She turns to leave, her movements are sluggish, like a rusted machine, a walking stick I didn’t notice before holding the weight of her right side. ‘ _Go to Moscow, The Bolshoi Theatre_ ’, she instructs, starting to walk away. ‘ _You might find a few interesting things there_ ’, she doesn’t bother to raise her voice from the distance; she’s aware of my enhanced senses.

‘ _More lies?_ ’, my words make her stop, turning back and looking at me with an understanding expression. A wave on anger and despair rises up my chest, I want to demand from her the truth, squeeze the answers from her throat, like those Hydra scientists that experimented on me, but she’s not them, and I’m in no position to kill anyone here. I take a deep breath and she seems to be waiting until I’m calm enough because she knows how unpredictable I can be.

‘ _Words that were meant to kept a secret won’t ever lie_ ’, her answer was simple, but full of meaning. Whatever I find, if I find anything at all, will be realer than any of my own memories and thoughts, my nightmares could be a glimpse of that truth and she’s given me the missing parts of the puzzle, but why?

‘ _Why are you helping me?_ ’, she’s the one frowning at me now, a grimace forming on her face as the speaks.

‘ _I would never help a murderer_ ’, she says angrily, a sharp tone in her voice at my stupid suggestion. I look down, ashamed and baffled, but when I hear her speak again, any trace of hostility is gone, now replaced with amusement. ‘ _You were perfect_ ’, I look back at her, she’s grinning with satisfaction, her features pleased with her upcoming words. ‘ _I just want to prove them wrong_ ’, and just like that, she leaves, walking slowly away from me.

That’s it. I put the files inside my backpack, closing the door behind me and heading to the reception. I leave the keys without even looking at the blond girl, she says something like ‘Have a good day’, or ‘Come back soon’ or some other bullshit I can’t hear because I have to leave right fucking now. The trip to Moscow will take me a full week, maybe less, of bike riding like the devil, flashing days and nights to The Bolshoi Theater, The Red Room and Natalia’s true story. Better hurry the hell up so I can go back to my summer breeze and rainbow. My little bird. Goddamnit, I miss her with every part of my soul, I yearn for her and I remind myself that she mustn’t be on my mind, distracting me, taking away my full concentration from this mission. Later. _Yes_. Later. I climb on the bike and turn on the engine, the picture of the brightest blue day mixing with the thick snow in front of me as I take my leave.

I make it to Romny in less time than I expected, but getting out of Ukraine is going to be slightly more difficult; I can’t take the bike with me. I’ll bring attention if I don’t change the vehicle before I arrive to Konotop. Pretending to be a random passenger in a train or bus will camouflage my trajectory and keep curious eyes out of the radar. Getting lost in the mass or people is the best way to pass by unnoticed. Once in the outsides of the country, I change my MO radically and sneak up to the cargo space of a truck, the driver doesn’t even notice he’s taking a master assassin hidden between his boxes of seed oils. It’s always been easy to be invisible, the ghost that no one sees but it’s terrified of, and although this is not the safest way to get to Kursk, it’s better than avoiding the legal protocols, the risk to blow down my cover reduced to the minimum. I force myself to read Maria’s notes to kill the time, but the words refuse to sink in, there are just technical words and numbers at first, but as I go forward on the reading, I bump into one name: Romanova Natalia Alianovna. The scarlet-haired girl who was the finest prospect at the eyes of the scientists and heads of the project. She was one of the 28 orphans who were selected to be tested. The KGB’s Experimental Science Division wasted to time and experimented with all kinds of techniques since their outrageous young age, such as hallucinogens, microchips, and sensory deprivation, as well as exposure to videos with subliminal messages that brainwashed them. They were mere dolls, perfect empty shells to be filled with rage and bloodlust behind their beauty. Maria’s notes indicate that three girls were prominent at the training program, three names, three subjects: Belova Yelena, Romanova Natalia Alianovna and Vronzkaya Irina Vladimirovna. They possessed a higher progress on their abilities in combat, strength and intellect, but they were studied separately to achieve a better contrast of their results. The last name lingers on my thoughts and I can hear something click inside my skull. ‘ _Mr. Liev Vronzky and Mrs. Irina Vronzkaya wish you a happy birthday_ ’, said the man back in the building. It’s her, the woman who’s related to Robin, she was part of the Black Widow Program, she was Hydra. She is Hydra. The realization provokes the air on my lungs to burst out in a sharp gasp, freezing my blood in fear and disbelief, the undeniable facts generating a million of theories and questions that desperately need answers. Does Robin know about this? Could she be working for Hydra too, knowing about me this whole time? Was she trained as well? I look for her name on the list, but she’s not there, and then darker feelings cloud my thoughts; maybe she’s one of them. She could’ve lied to me and made me believe she cared for me. They’ve been watching me, and she’s giving them all the information they want. She’s one of them. But no, it can’t be, she’s her, the rainbow girl, my little bird, all blue hair and sunset smiles. Jesus fucking Christ. I’m starting to panic, reluctant to believe such thing, I’m not sure about anything, but that insecurity vanishes as I smell Russian air right when I arrive to Kursk, a misgiving sensation invading my body as nasty memories appear on my mind. I shake my head, focusing on the truck’s noises to ensure a successful leak as soon as it stops. Bryansk is the farthest I get when I climb down the vehicle, the driver giving me an apathetic look when I walk casually by his side, like a normal customer coming out of the gas station’s store. Fool.

My worry has to wait. I have to get to Kaluga in the next few hours, then right to Moscow and the truth. I consider walking, but it would draw more attention than the rest of my options. Some people usually notice a strange man walking on the roadside in the middle of a snowstorm. I take a bus, careful to avoid security cameras and policemen, succeeding without struggle. Again, insultingly easy. The seat next to me is occupied by a man overly interested on my destination and I have to keep the files inside the backpack because it’s too dangerous if he even asks. After realizing, quite late, that I won’t return his enthusiasm and that he has to shut his mouth before I rip it off his face, he busies himself on his phone and lets me ‘sleep’, thankfully. The rest of the journey is spent in silence, my eyes looking out of the window and trying hard not to think about the place I’m heading to. I’m not afraid of the possibility of not finding something, rather that I will, if what the old woman said it’s true and there are the answers I’m looking for, they won’t be easy to get. Hydra’s men were not stupid, they keep their deepest secrets under a hundred locks, buried under millions of dead bodies and lies, but they’re just as predictable; the files couldn’t be out of reach, nor they could be at plain sight. I curse under my breath, inspecting my own knowledge of Hydra’s protocols until I fall sleep without realizing.

‘ _Bucky?_ ’, her voice is the first sound I hear in the darkness. Summer breeze and tinkerbell. ‘ _Where are you?_ ’, her call pushes me to walk aimlessly towards nowhere. I’m blind, there’s too much black and there she is, shining with rainbow light, guiding me in her direction, and she looks beautiful. She’s wearing a light- blue dress that matches her hair, now longer, and her moody boots steal a smile from my lips. My little bird, bow-legged, smiling in colors, adorable as hell. ‘ _Are you coming back?_ ’, her features sadden for a brief second and my heart breaks a little.

‘ _Yes, I am, just not for now_ ’, we step closer to each other as I speak. My voice is weak, but ensuring. I promised to her that I would.

‘ _Why? Did I hurt you?_ ’, I reach to her quickly, taking her face in my hands, soothing her worried expression.

‘ _No, of course not, but I have to know something_ ’, I explain and she frowns, looking at me with her big, brown eyes full of turmoil.

‘ _Know what?_ ’, she brings her hands up, covering mine with a warmth I’d almost forgotten. She’s so lovely and fragile.

‘ _Something important to me_ ’, we’re impossibly close, my lips brushing on the skin of her forehead. She hugs me, like that day I gave her the bicycle, and I cling to her, like that morning I woke up by her side.

‘ _I miss you_ ’, she whispers between suffocated sobs. I close my eyes, tightening my embrace around her body and fucking hell, I miss her too, and I don’t intend to keep that truth from her. 

‘ _I miss you too_ ’, I kiss the top of her head before stepping back, breaking our hug, but never our hold. ‘ _I promise I will come back as soon as I can, but I have to do this first, I gotta find out more about my past_ ’. Something changes, her sad expression turns playful, not in a fun way, but malicious.

‘ _You mean about you and Steve… or Natalia?_ ’, those names cut through my soul. I move back, frowning at her.

‘ _How do you know about her?_ ’, I ask and she laughs, not that merry laugh of hers, not the one that draws an inner sun on my heart; she’s laughing with pleasure, as if my confusion was the biggest joke I’ve told her. It leaves me cold to the bones.

‘ _I know her, and I know about you, I’ve always had_ ’, she answers factually, again amused by my stupidity and ignorance, then her smile vanishes, a seriousness non characteristic of her creeping up her face. ‘ _You loved her_ ’, she says in a challenging tone.

‘ _I can’t even remember her_ ’, I whisper, terrified of this torn version of my rainbow girl my dreams are creating.

‘ _You do_ ’, she simply brushes away my attempts to deny her statement. ‘ _Oh, Bucky. You still love her; I can see it_ ’, her knowing smile is killing me. ‘ _But she doesn’t belong to you anymore_ ’, I shake my head, half not knowing what she means, half trying to ground myself on her. My hands stretch towards her because I need her to be real, and I need her to believe me.

‘ _I belong to someone else now_ ’, there’s a silent confession in my words, an unspoken revelation too dangerous to be openly said. She doesn’t have to know, not this way, not now. Her confidence falters and nothing makes sense.

' _You love her_ ’, she repeats, more to herself than to me. She’s breaking, the outlines of her body grow dim, all of her is chaotic and artificial. Despair invades the space between us, I try to hold on to her once more but she’s far away from me and I have no strength to bring her back. There’s just one thing she has to know before she disappears, before I lose her for the millionth time.

‘ _No! I love–_ ’, but the missing word never leaves my mouth because I’m awaken by a gentle shake on my shoulder. I open my eyes and look around, trying hard not to take out my guns and shoot at whoever is there. The guy next to me looks at me with worry and alarm, probably realizing that it wasn’t a good idea to wake. 

‘ _We arrived_ ’, he says and walks away hurriedly. Poor guy. I blink a few times, standing up and heading out of the bus. The moment my feet hit the ground, something feels wrong, like I’m not supposed to be here and I know it’s back to her where I belong to. _Come back_. Not now. _Come back to me_. I have to do this. Robin’s voice fades away as I turn around, firmly convinced that this is necessary and the faster I get done with this shitty trip, the faster I’ll be with her.

Moscow is irrelevant. The buildings, the snow on the streets and the people pass by me as I look for The Bolshoi Theater. I don’t have time to notice details, things that could seem familiar, I’m not here to wonder; I’m careful though, not trusting my surroundings and avoiding anyone’s attention. The Bolshoi Theater, Barnes, find the goddamned Bolshoi Theater. It’s that simple, and that difficult. I ask for the theater’s location, a gentle woman writes down on a piece of paper the address and I come to the conclusion that being casual, acting like a normal person, pretending to be another brick on the wall is the best way to blend in the crowd. Ordinary, almost human. According to what this woman wrote, I’m not far from the theater, actually, I’m two blocks away from it. The streets are starting to darken, the snow turning gray, the cold is piercing through my clothes even though I put on double jacket, the black beanie Robin likes and a scarf. Gloves on the whole time. It takes me ten minutes to be in front the magnificent building, its yellows light and white beauty is mesmerizing. Suddenly, my whole body tenses in anticipation of what I might face once I’m inside, I’m prepared to fight, to kill, but I’m not ready to answer the questions that have been swimming in my brain. The weight of the truth might be too much, but the force that brought me here is stronger than my doubts. 

I think of it like an extraction mission. Get in, get the information, and get the hell out of there. I have no reason to stay more than it’s needed, I can’t allow myself to get caught, so I sit on a bench that provides me a panoramic view of the area, studying every corner, every alley and person walking around, identifying the emergency exits and back doors. It seems that there’s no event taking place on the theater, so it’s going to be easier to sneak inside. I wait until the lights are the only company of the building to walk closer to it, taking advantage of the shadows to remain undetected by the security officers already in their position, except for one. An old man abandons his chair in a hurry, heading to a door with the ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ signal above the threshold. My movements are fast and fluid, my military training and espionage skills getting the best of them, and for a brief moment, I’m The Winter Soldier again. Efficient and clean. I repeat to myself ‘get in, get the praise and get out’, but when I’m inside, a rush of familiarity leaves my legs trembling. Back when I was assigned to extract information from a base, or someone, I was given specific instructions of the locations and people involved, but this time I’m fully acquainted with every corner of this place. I remember all of it. Seven meters forward, turn to the left, walk through the aisle until you reach the dressing rooms and open the tenth door. I can’t hear my own feet walking on the floor, not even my breathing, but any other sound is highlighted to my ears; the cars outside, the policemen talking and the beeping of the activated alarms. Everything is monitored, in control, and it helps me track my actions and keep them out disclosure. _Get the praise_. I enter the most isolated area of the building, a set of doors that lead to shared and individual dressing rooms, and what happens next is nothing more than muscle memory, my body remembering what my mind has forgotten.

 _Who are you?_ The tenth door is in front of me, and I open it without hesitation. There’s a ballerina painting on the right side, and only that. _Shut up_. I examine my surroundings carefully, noticing a nearly invisible space between the corners of the room. A soft breeze fans over my face as I lean forward; there’s something behind the back wall. _What do you want?_ My hands slide though the breach and separate the edges of the walls, my heart beating so fast that I’m afraid someone might hear it. I’m so close. _I want you_. Once visible, I face a metallic door, rusted and thick, with a code lock covered by dust and webs. The numbers are clearer than the bluest of skies, so it just takes me two breathes to open it. _Then take me_. And I step in.

Natalia is dancing, wearing a white leotard and she’s naked in a blink, sweaty and needy. The picture of her body wafts by my side as I walk down the wooden stairs and vanished when I get to the training room. The memories flood the air, her memory and mine, ours. _We have no place in the world_. I know where I have to go, but I move in slow-motion, too clumsy to be effective. I get to that particular room before I acknowledge it; it’s empty, and I don’t know why I was hoping to find him there. _We belong here_. I walk in, heading to the old desk and try to open the drawer. It’s locked, of course it is. There’s no time to waste, I break the lock with my metal arm and take all the archives in there, not even caring to look at them because I know exactly their content’s owner. Only one person was important enough to be watched and documented by Ivan Petrovich himself, and he was selfish enough to keep his notes in this very office. I turn around, practically running out of this miserable place, faster than my way in. I don’t want to be here, not anymore, not ever. The Bolshoi Theater is left behind, so is Moscow. I’m never coming back. I have to go home now.

The same cities that led me here remain in the fog. They don’t matter, and while I make my way to Konotop, I read the files I stole. It’s a thick bunch of papers, statistics and progress records, most of it numbers at the side of charts, just a small set of ancient notebook leaves catch my eyes. ‘ _February 16th, 1989. Natalia successfully survived the endurance test she was put under_.’ The details of the procedure rise goosebumps on my scalp; knifes, chemicals with long and strange names, extreme weather exposure, sleep and food deprivation were among the requirements. ‘ _May 21st, 1995. Natalia killed her opponent with ease, fending on a specific set of skills she was taught by the Red Room’s trainers, showing a dominance of both physical and intellectual strategies_ ’. Petrovich must have been so proud of her favorite girl, the son of a bitch knew she was different, and she would prove to be of a unique use if they forced her to. ‘ _September 3rd, 1999. Natalia had her first fight with The Asset and she wasn’t successful. More training is required_.’ I remember the first time I saw her, lethal and beautiful, her red hair was longer and her face gentler. We didn’t speak, we just fought until her nose and lips bled. God, she was so young. ‘ _April 24th, 2000. Natalia and The Asset were confirmed to be the perfect match to work as partners. Their abilities are suitable for any type of assignment, her finesse compliments his strength and his experience will help her to achieve the ultimate level of efficiency_.’ She was delicate and I was fierce, she could cut one’s throat and make it look poetic. So brutally efficient. And just when they thought we were meant to be the deadliest super spies of the world, something happened, we happened. ‘ _June 12th, 2000. Natalia and The Asset have to be separated, by force if necessary. They’re not following the protocols of the Red Room. The Asset shows a slight hesitance when they’re sparing, giving her advantage over him, and she’s starting to falter on her attacks, being poor and weak in her movements._ ’ Between this page and the other, there’s a n.d. note, off the record, written with a different style that doesn’t belong to Petrovich, similar to Maria’s. ‘ _The Asset was seen coming from the precise direction of Natalia Romanova’s quarters. The event was witnessed by Yelena Belova, she informed Dr. Grigor Pchelinstov, who directly reported to General Vasily Karpov. It was mentioned that they’ve interacted out of the supervision of both scientists and trainers, and it was suggested as well that they’ve had intimate relations in the past months. Their separation is vital if The Red Room intents to maintain their utility to its purposes. M.T._ ’. I don’t have to be a genius to figure out who’s initials are those. Maria Trovaya, that’s why she knew where could I find the documents. It was true, we were true and they found out. I remember her smug grin and sassy tone, the vigor in her eyes and the sharp green of her irises. I used to look at her from the distance, mesmerized by her elegance and ferocity, she would look back at me with hunger and challenge, and something clicked. I wanted her. Wordless kisses and hasty hands were the only communication we had, she didn’t knew who I really was, and even though I knew her name, it was forbidden to break the silence, after all, it was the one thing we shared and understood about the other; in a world where we were no one, we found a place to hide from ourselves. We weren’t good, we were fucked up, we knew it, we didn’t dare to deny it, but in the end, it was good to be shattered pieces of glass. Being with Natalia felt like it wasn’t bad to be that fucked up, we had our brains and bodies just as jaded, we had lived hell and we burned inside it, and because we knew, a sick bound was born between us. We were the same slice of human carrion, rotten and slaughtered. Natalia. I look for more notes, reports, anything that could tell me more than just coldly confirmed assumptions of scientists, but the last page of Petrovich’s notes destroy those hopes. ‘ _August 2nd, 2000. Natalia is ready for her graduation ceremony. She’s clean and ready to be assigned to her first mission. If not successfully completed, the subject must me removed from the program._ ’, and that was it. I grunt in exasperation, but I’m as empty as the spaces between the pages. There’s no sadness or rage, nor vengeance desires because what can I do? She forgot about me and they erased her face from my mind. It’s done, and none of us fix what happened, we can’t go back. There are ages between us now, and knowing this part of the truth doesn’t change my feeling for... 

I watch the landscapes on rewind through the window. Russia disappears before my eyes, cities are turned to ashes and faceless entities are forgotten. I get to Kiev in the flutter of a bird, the same snow and the same coldness greeting my return when I find myself already walking towards the motel I stayed in a few days ago, the time didn’t exist between the distance of the cities I had passed by and when I’m about to walk towards the reception, I bump into the blond girl who smiles too much. As soon as she lays eyes on me, the wide grin that gets me anxious appears on her face. 

‘ _You’re back_ ’, she sighs out. A happy tone clear in her voice. I look down at her with frowned eyes, not knowing exactly what to do because I feel like she’s going to jump on me at any given second. I slide my hands through the fabric on my jeans and brush my fingertips over my knife pocket handler, just in case. She shakes her head and lets out a nervous laugh. ‘ _I’m sorry, would you like to take another room, sir?_ ’

‘ _No, thank you_ ’, I answer quickly and her shoulders fall in disappointment. I have no time for this, so I clear my throat and throw at her my real question. ‘ _Where do I find… Masha?_ ’

‘ _In the back garden, sir_ ’, she gestures towards the edge of the forest. I realize that she wasn’t expecting me to ask for the old woman, and her disappointment becomes concern. ‘ _Please, don’t listen to her, she’s not bad, but her mind is not well_ ’, her warning is caressing, and her sudden change of tone softens my body. She reminds me of someone who cared for me, and is waiting for me. I nod and thank her, walking towards the direction she indicated. The trees are frozen, white and tall, the perfect winter scenario, all ice and snow. Maria comes into sight a few meters from the edge, not quite into the woods, standing with her head looking up the sky. She’s not aware of my presence.

‘ _What happed to her?_ ’, the trails of my voice echoes through the trees, filling the air with a melancholy breeze, pleading. She turns around in a harsh movement, looking at me with both surprise and annoyance, relaxing her body as she recognizes me. She huffs and steps closer, bracing herself with her coats and scarfs. It must be colder than I feel.

‘ _I thought you went to Moscow to–_ ’

‘ _You knew_ ’, I cut her off, an unexpected wave of anger spreading through my body. ‘ _You gave Petrovich that note_ ’, it sounds like I’m reproaching her, my reaction makes the corner of her mouth twist in amusement. ‘ _Now, tell me what happened after you did_ ’, I demand, her smirk faltering a little. She doesn’t answer right away, rather lets the silence hover in the space separating us. Her lips form a thin line when she finally sighs and decides to speak.

‘ _They set an ambush_ ’, she declares indifferently. ‘ _They waited for you to look for her one night, sneaking into her room like a teenager, and they caught you both_ ’, I purse my lips; she’s not telling me a great amount of things that I couldn’t think of by myself. She shrugs at my impatience. ‘ _I don’t know exactly what happened, but you were put back into the cryostasis chamber and they wiped out her memory_ ’, that got my attention, not because of her revelation, but for the meaning of her words. I knew Petrovich commanded our separation, weakness was forbidden, and we were starting to have consideration, refraining our strength, growing sympathetic, but his reasons aren’t clear enough to me. My confusion must be terribly evident because Maria smiles, amused by my inability to see what seems obvious. ‘ _It was dangerous if you two were close, if you cared and remembered each other, you were not supposed to act like individuals, to think or feel by yourselves_ ’, we chose each other, that was our one and only mistake, and we paid the price for such stupid provocation. ‘ _Does that make you feel anything?_ ’, I detect a twinge of sadness in her voice along with honest curiosity.

‘ _No_ ’, my voice is steady and true. Cristal clear, cutting through her examining eyes.

‘ _Will you look for her?_ ’, she’s not sure of my negation, and for the thousandth fraction of a second, I’m not sure either.

‘ _No_ ’, I already found her, back in DC, and no way in hell I willingly go after her. We’ve already done enough damage to the world and our humanities, or what’s left of them. ‘ _Why did I remember her in a different way?_ ’, I frown, looking down, remembering our encounter at the highway and the cold way we tried to kill each other.

‘ _Anyone’s mind is easily manipulated_ ’, she explains. ‘ _But_ ’, pausing to accentuate what’s next to be said. ‘ _You did feel something for her and for Steve Rogers, and feelings are more powerful than thoughts, purer and wild: you remembered them because even you are still human_ ’. Robin’s voice echoes in my head. The day I told her the whole truth and she begged me to stay and be Bucky, just Bucky, with her. She offered me a chance to be someone new. She knew I remembered Steve better than anything else, even my feelings for him, our bound, how much I truly cared for him. Our friendship held an endearing place in my heart, and I wish, with all of my soul, we can get back what we lost one day, because he never gave up on me, not even when I kept beating him on that helicarrier. Maybe I can gain more this time. ‘ _Anything else?_ ’, Maria’s call interrupts my line of thoughts before I can drift farther from reality. I dig into my brain, searching for the right question to formulate, a name creeping up its way above mountains of possibilities.

‘ _What do you know about Irina Vronzkaya?_ ’, she seems a little taken aback by the source of my interest 

‘ _She was a third option, she was good, but obviously not enough_ ’, Maria’s wave of dismissal and revulsion towards the woman related to Robin surprises me. She was one of the finest possessions of the Red Room, I can’t imagine why, or what this woman could possibly had done to be dismissed by them. ‘ _She was removed from the program before she even learned how to shoot, too young to be of use, nothing important_ ’, she eludes mentioning the exact reasons, but it’s likely that she failed them. Maria starts to walk towards me, stopping to stand right next to me, turning to her side, forcing me to look at her. Dirty, old green eyes. ‘ _I found some files I stole when the base where I was kept was attacked, it says something about you… and Siberia_ ’, the last words she pronounces feel like a stab to my chest. Anything related to that place has been minutely avoided by my consciousness. Some things are better off buried in the snow. ‘ _You can stay here for a while, until you clear your doubts, at least_ ’, she offers and keeps going, heading towards the motel. I’m bewildered, I want to know more, if not everything I can from my own story, she’s able to give me some parts of the puzzle and build the bigger picture, but… ‘ _What? You have something better to do? Someone’s waiting for you at home?_ ’, she sighs in exasperation at my stillness. She has no idea of what she’s saying. I haven’t move, my breathing stopped a few seconds ago and now my head is buzzing. I close my eyes just to see her face behind my eyelids, her colors invade every corner of my mind and her smile is so bright that it burns my skin. _Robin_. I promised to her that I would come back soon. _Sad eyes and moonlight skin_. I begged her to wait for me. Blue hair and purple nails. It’s been too long; I have to go back. _Summer breeze and rainbow_. But perhaps I still can’t be what she deserves, perhaps we have to wait longer, for the sake of ourselves, we need time to heal the wounds that our nightmares brought upon us. We’ll claim the happiness we deserve, just not now, not today. 

Someday we will find each other, I swear to myself that I will go back to her the very moment this is over. I owe her that. Pain rushes through my chest, my heart shrinking and my soul yearning for its missing half. _My little bird, forgive me_.

‘ _I’ll stay_ ’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I'll be posting soon', she said, 'Chapter 14 is coming', she said. And here I am, updating almost a month later. I beg your forgiveness, and I swear by the Old Gods and the new that it wasn't because I didn't want to. School hit me like a bloody truck, my grandma had a accident and broke one of her legs so we had to travel to visit her every weekend, and, well, you kinda know me. I tend to get excited and this chapter kept growing and growing. But, I have 'a reward' for you: if you follow me on Tumblr, you've probably noticed that I've been posting the fic with nice gifts, quotes from the songs that inspire every chapter linked to their videoclip. Full pack, like that McDonals happy meal :P Here are the posts for each chapter:
> 
> [1](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149444722512/have-you-ever-been-lost-in-a-different-world), [2](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149446652487/under-the-radar-out-of-the-system-caught-in-the), [3](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149449508307/its-the-longest-start-but-the-ends-not-too-far), [4](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149497057647/have-i-found-you-flightless-bird-im-looking-at), [5](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149497228897/you-cant-wake-up-this-is-not-a-dream-youre), [6](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149633003427/cant-you-see-that-youre-smothering-me-holding), [7](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149633484427/i-want-to-reconcile-the-violence-in-your-heart-i), [8](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149826817657/can-you-hear-me-can-you-hear-me-running-can-you), [9](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149827313407/she-says-dont-let-go-never-give-up-is-such-a), [10](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149862052552/i-wasnt-born-this-way-with-a-thousand-things-to), [11](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149862630307/and-if-the-sky-comes-falling-down-for-you), [12](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149863195342/please-stop-youre-scaring-me-i-cant-help), [13](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149865462277/we-might-as-well-be-strangers-for-all-i-know-of) and [14](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/149965054037/last-night-we-fell-apart-and-broke-to-pieces-our).
> 
> PLEASE, let me know your thoughts. Do you like them? :D
> 
> And well, about this chapter, I wanted to take Bucky out of his comfort zone. I truly love his relationship with Nat in the comics, I think they're very sweet and awesome together, but I'm going to work with them in a different way, I played with some canon stuff from the original story and added things related to the MCU, still, you'll se where this is heading :) There won't be a love triangle, Nat has her own happy ending with someone else (not really, given what happened at the end of CW) Yes, big revelations about Robin's relation with the twins, and there's more to come ;D Thank you for your patience, I don't know when I'll be updating, honestly, could be weeks or even another full month, but I swear I'll do everything to take the less time I can.
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!! This story is growing thanks to you and I'm so happy knowing that there are people still reading it :) If you ever want me to share something on Tumblr, please let me know. As usual, leave questions, critics or just comments. I'll answer them all. Have a wonderful week, I love you all :D


	15. This One For You

The cappuccino is ready. I put some cinnamon powder above the foamy surface and look at my gorgeous masterpiece, and if Liana doesn’t hurry, this cup won’t make it to its payer. Liana Budescu is my new coworker, she was hired by Mr. Tanase a few days after my birthday and his reasons to do it still raise goosebumps on my skin. My boss is a discreet man, he’s never unfazed by the hardest of situations, he’s charming, disciplined and well-mannered, but working with him for almost two years has taught me how to read his face. There was a time when he had problems with one of his providers, we ran out of the customers’ favorite filter coffee, they had been asking when were we going to get more and Mr. Tanase wore a set of pronounced wrinkles during this period, his eyes had a tired vale darkening them and his hands were trembling every time he grabbed a cup. Something similar was happening to him now, a burden was heavily pressing him down, but he wouldn’t tell what it was until I caught him crying one random morning.

_He’s sitting on one of the tables, hands covering his face and his sobs are quiet, but strong. I mean to turn around and give him some privacy, but he hears my poor attempts to flight when I hit my face on the glass door. Lord Almighty. He immediately composes himself._

_‘Dear’, he wipes the tears off his face with the back of his hands, then clears his throat. ‘I didn’t see you coming in’, he stands up quickly, smoothing his clothes and giving me a plastic smile he’s used so many times with stranger people._

_‘I can wait outside’, the knot on my throat makes my voice sound rough and I turn, tripping with a chair because God is not that merciful and to make a proper flight without breaking my knee or nose in the process isn’t just for me. I know there’s a tomato-red-why-Jesus-why flush on my cheeks._

_‘Don’t be ridiculous, child’, he lets out a shaky laugh, heading towards the counter, his singular charming features disguising his sadness. ‘The day has started and customers will walk through that door at any minute’, he clasps his hands and I know we are not having this conversation now, maybe never. The customers arrive no longer after, my mind focusing completely on my tasks, preparing coffee, bringing cups to the tables and picking them up empty. My shift is about to finish before I realize what time is it, Liana must be on her way and I’m grabbing my things from the locker when my boss approaches to me, a calm expression on his face. ‘Mrs. Tanase has breast cancer’, the sudden confession makes me drop my helmet. I turn around, fighting back tears of both impotence and denial. Mr. Tanase seems to struggle as much as me, he gulps and puts on a good face, failing. ‘She’s doing good, but she needs some time at the beach after her chemotherapy’, there’s a faint trace of hope in his words, a feeling that doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘We’ll go to the west, where is warmer now, probably within a week’, my heart constricts. I’ve witnessed how much they love each other, back when they offered me to stay with them until my dislocated ankle healed, their marriage is purely based on trust, respect and support, and he’s hurting deep for her. He’s afraid of loosing her. ‘I trust you, Robin, and I know that I may be asking too much from you, but this café is very important to her, and she’s the most precious thing in the world to me, so I want you to take care of it in my absence’, it’s not just fear, but battle. This is their home, the café is the fruit of many years of sacrifice, of Mrs. Tanase worries about her husband and Costin cries for her father. He told me once how many days and weeks he had to spend out of town in order to keep his own family economically stable as a diplomatic minister, how much they suffered for that absence and how grateful they were when it was over. And he’s asking me to take care of their home, they’re leaving what they cherish the most because it’s necessary, but why me? What am I going to do alone here? ‘I trust you’, he says. I didn’t notice when the tears started to fall down my cheeks. The woman he loves is dying, he doesn’t say it, but he knows, and he’s willing to leave it all behind so they can live for the last time the love that has bounded them for so many years. I can’t even imagine that love._

_‘I’ll do the best I can, sir’, I promise to him. It’s the least I can do for them, the people who opened their arms to me without doubt. They’re the closest thing to a family I’ll ever know, and they deserve this. He nods and walks away, clearly relieved that I agreed to his request._

He left within a week, as he said, and Costin wasn’t joining them. They didn’t explain me why, but they may think their son has to learn how to be in charge of the business he would inherit one day, also his parents wanted peace and privacy, and he understands that. They’re coming back by summer, hopefully Mrs. Tanase will be better and everything is going to get back to normal. And maybe he will come back too by then. I have no time to dig further into these thoughts because they are interrupted by Liana, who’s looking at me from the door of the kitchen, an amused grin on her doll-face. 

‘ _Fell in love with that cappuccino?_ ’, she quirks her eyebrow and gestures at the cup on my hands. I shake my head to clear my mind and she steps closer, taking the cup and turning around, pouting her bottom lip at me. ‘ _Sorry, he’s already taken_ ’, I chuckle and she leaves. 

Liana has been working here for over a month, she walked in, big smile on her lips and messy blond hair framing her large face, waving her hand at me, announcing she would take the evening shift and Mr. Tanase was behind her, confirming her words. She’s seventeen years old and incredibly chatty, there’s a light on her that adds a happy energy to the local. She laughs and hums all day, giving a broad smile to every single one of the customers, even the grumpy men who frown at her in antipathy. We didn’t speak right away, I smiled at her politely and offered to help her if she ever needed assistance, but she was never too eager to start a conversation with me, she was patient and understanding, a gift I’m sure she was born with. Although we rarely worked together, very short time after our meeting, we fell into a comfortable work dynamic that became small chats, exchanges of gentle looks and kind words. I feel relaxed around her, working with her is easy and funny, and if we have the chance to talk a little before I leave the café, we do, if not, it’s all fine. 

_‘How do you take your coffee?’, she asks fifteen minutes before her shift starts. She arrived earlier and I find her preparing us a cup of coffee in the kitchen. I smile in gratitude, her gesture truly gladdening me after a long and busy day._

_‘Black’, she nods and hands me the cup right away, not adding anything else to it. ‘Thank you’, I say to her and she nods again, fixing her hair into a ponytail. She looks young and innocent, but there’s playful aura on her and it reminds me of a little girl who’s about to execute a brilliant prank._

_‘You’re welcome’, she gives me lopsided smile. It makes her look clever, somehow. I take the first zip of coffee and it feels heavenly; being surrounded by it is one thing, having the time to enjoy it was another, and Liana was an incredible coffee maker. The right dark tone and the perfect heat. I forget about the helmet, the scarf and the jacket waiting in my locker, I’m drowned in the moment until Liana’s voice forces me to shut open my eyes. ‘I like you’, she comments casually, there’s no pretense, just honesty in her statement. ‘You don’t talk a lot, but you’re nice, and your hair is cool’, I let out a chuckle, earning a laugh from her._

It soon became a ritual, weather it was her getting me coffee, or me already one in hand as she arrived. Costin shows up every now and then to supervise her, or that’s what she’s told me. I don’t see him around very often, knowing that he doesn’t have to worry about me. It’s comforting to share my work place with a girl whose personality contrasts with mine in such fine way. She’s younger and livelier, she grants a positive energy to the place that invites people to stay longer. I was assigned to the morning shift and Liana in the evening due to school, but she’s very well disciplined, so she has no problem working and studying. 

_‘I’m sorry! My teacher went all crazy about polynomials and he finished the class fifteen minutes late’, she runs into the café, practically breathless. I know few little things about her, she’s mentioned being in her senior year of what could be called high school, her favorite color is pink, she prefers her coffee light with milk and sugar, and that she’s exceptionally punctual._

_‘Don’t worry’, I tell her, assuring that one time she’s late won’t kill anyone, at least not me. She hurries towards her locker beside the bathroom to put on her uniform, when she comes back, the smile on her lips faces me as I hand her a cup of coffee. ‘Where are you studying?’, I ask._

_‘Liceu, in the science program’, I rise my eyebrows in surprise. She must be very good. ‘I’m going to live in Italy when I finish, but I want to have enough money to rent an apartment until I find a job’. Contrary of what I honestly expected, she’s looking for something simple, she didn’t mention College, but her priorities are focused on one goal and that’s great. Most of the young people don’t even have future plans, nor expectations of what they want to become. Liana seems to be sure of what she wants. ‘What about you? Why are you working here?’, her question takes me aback. I trip with the counter, making my way to the exit._

_‘I wanted to have a job’, I shrug, avoiding the prompt of more questions. Although I’ve been living in Romania for almost two years, my level of answer competency hasn’t increased much. I understand the language perfectly, but speaking, carry on a fluent conversation is still difficult. I blame my lack of contact with human beings, or my ostrich natural reaction whenever someone speaks to me directly._

_‘Well, you got one, and you seem to enjoy it’, she adds, curiosity twirling in her eyes. She’s definitely not done with this conversation._

_‘You don’t? You need the money, but would you…’, and there it is. My lack of answer competency. Liana laughs, obviously aware of my struggles. ‘Would you like to work in other thing?’, my chose of words makes her frown._

_‘Somewhere else? I don’t mind being a waitress, it’s kind of fun, but if I could choose, I’d work at a mall, surrounded by nice clothes’, she says, shrugging like she doesn’t mind where her money comes from. I nod and turn around, waving my hand at her and wishing her a good evening, but before I step out of the café, she half shouts from the kitchen’s door. ‘I’ll help you practice your Romanian, if that’s okay with you’, of course she will. She’s that subtle and awesome_.

And she did help me. We stablished a speaking session, agreeing that between our shift change she would ask me about any random thing and I would give her the largest answer I could formulate. She corrected me when my sentences where wrongly structured, tell me the right word if I didn’t know it and pretty much laugh at my first poor attempt to say ‘I slammed my face against the door again this morning’. Her humor sense is other thing I enjoy the most, it’s accurate and not offensive, her face is the incarnation of fun when she’s trying to tell me a joke, never completing her intentions because she’s laughing half the way. As weeks passed by, we started to get along better, there was a cool fluid of words in our conversations, except for the times I barely managed to keep up with her rhythm, but the nice stranger I was working with grew to be a potential friend. People talk to other people, they become friends, or in the worst case, enemies, but she wants us to be more than coworkers. It’s normal that two girls who work together become friends, that they talk and laugh like anyone else. It’s good. I never realized how locked in myself I was until Bucky left and Liana arrived. She doesn’t ask, she’s just there, and I wonder if I made Bucky feel the same way. I promised to him I would never ask, that he didn’t have to tell me, but he did and the weight of that truth crushed down the dream we were living. Liana is stronger than me, she thinks faster and it’s good to have her teaching new things me at the pace of the world. I remember the worried expression she wore a particular day when I rushed into the café, panting and nearly crawling towards my locker, but above all, how quickly she reacted.

_‘Robin, hey! Robin, breathe’, she kneels in front of me when I crumble down the floor, my mouth opening widely to take in as much air as I can. She’s alarmed, her hands trying to search for injuries but not daring to touch me in fear that she might hurt me. And in that moment, she reminds me of someone else. ‘What? What do you need?’, she asks and I gesture my purse, unable to formulate the word ‘inhaler’. She gets the hint and looks inside the small purse, finding what she thinks I meant to say and handing me the inhaler immediately. Long minutes pass before I aim to stand up, her skinny arms holding my shoulders to prevent me from falling again. And she keeps reminding me of that someone else. ‘You scared me there, what happened?’. I need a couple of deep air intakes to speak._

_‘I ran… too fast’, I’m still gasping, my words strangled by my throat._

_‘God, I really thought your lungs would come out of your nose, Rob’, she sounds deeply worried, and I let out a surprised laugh. I haven’t had an asthma attack in quite some time. I almost forget how terrible they are._

_‘I forgot my keys’, I explain once I’ve recovered completely, making her frown. If she knew, she wouldn’t be so confused, but she can’t know. Not now._

_‘You ran too fast because you forgot your keys?’. I understand her. Forgetting my keys is not reason enough to squeeze the oxygen out of my lungs, I could have walked slower, or in my blind frenzy, could have taken the bus, but the truth is that they’re not my keys, they’re his, and the sudden realization that I left them on my locker half my way to my apartment set me into a desperate need to get back and bring them with me. I felt too stupid and guilty for such distracted behavior, after all, how would he enter his apartment if he comes back? When, I tell myself. When he comes back to me. Liana doesn’t push into the subject, she chuckles and asks me to wait until I’m a fully operative asthmatic._

After my birthday, I carry his keys with me the whole time, unable to leave them behind because I need to remind myself that he is coming back. Today, tomorrow, next week or next month, he’s coming back and he’ll be looking for the keys of his apartment. I don’t see a logic in there, but honestly, nothing has made sense for a while, so I keep them inside the front pocket of my jeans to ground my faith. Liana’s presence has taught me more than just companionship, she has brought me to the reality, the actual time of our lives, a place where I refuse to belong because it doesn’t feel like home. I’ve been running away from this new world long before I started to run away from my past, dismissing any kind of contact with technology innovation. I know about them because I’d read of them, that doesn’t mean I wanted to be part of it, but what I want is out of phase. It’s 2016 already, I can’t fight it, I can’t change it; it’s real. 

_‘You don’t have Facebook?! What kind of 21st century girl are you?’, she asks scandalized while we clean up the tables. I decided to work a double shift and we’re about to close the local. Later in the development of our friendship, I realized that she could be very funny, then completely annoying in a matter of seconds. For some reason, I’m not in the mood to talk about my indifference to social media and the like at this moment. ‘Tell me that you have a cellphone at least’, she rises her hands in the air, exasperated disbelief clear on her face._

_‘Yes, I do, Liana’, I take out my little cellphone from my back pocket and lift it on the air, rolling my eyes to her. She takes it and huffs, examining the tiny device with an offended expression._

_‘This bean here is your idea of modern communication?’, if I were not this irritated, I would laugh at her comment. No, I don’t have a super duper iPhone, but my bean functions perfectly, besides, I have only three numbers registered on my contact list; Mr. Tanase, the café’s and Mr. Tanase’s house. I have no one else to call, there’s no need to buy the greatest cellphone in the world if I don’t fully explode its benefits._

_‘It’s not a bean’, I snatch my phone from her hands, maybe too roughly, and her eases off her dramatic attitude. At the end, we finish closing the café in silence, her movements are shy and she avoids looking at me. It makes me feel bad._

_‘You shouldn’t be so reluctant to try new things’, she says as we turn to leave. I look at her and there’s a gentle smile on her face. It’s impossible to stay mad at her, even more when she is right. ‘They have their perks, it’s not just gossiping and memes, you might find it interesting if you take a look’, she suggests and waves her hand as a goodbye, wishing me a good night. Her words leave me thinking._

I love vintage things, prove of that are my boombox, the TV, the movie player, my Walkman and actually most of my belongings are outdated, but my preference to certain time in the past isn’t the only reason I refuse to embrace the modern age. For many years, I was surrounded by the highest quality of communication technology, I was protected by the best of security systems, I’m acquainted with the peak of computer’s software advance and my eyes have seen the cold efficiency of the greatest weapons human kind has created. They scare me, they make me realize how much power we have in our brains and hands, and how much control we don’t have over them. The picture of Bucky’s face irrupts in my mind. The way he seemed lost every time I showed him how to use certain device, how hesitant he was, the fear in his eyes restraining him from touching them and learn how to use them correctly. And I was comfortable with his ignorance because I knew we wouldn’t have to move along too fast, because his poor knowledge served as an excuse for me to stay where I was. Misplaced and timeless, like him. And it’s wrong, I don’t want us to be like that anymore, Bucky deserves to belong to this world again and I’m the one who will take his hand and walk alongside him. Side by side, step by step, heart by heart. He’s not alone, neither I am. It has to be me because he’s coming back to me, and when he does, I have to be braver, stronger, I have to be more for me and for him. He left because he hurt me and I step over that like it was nothing, my dismissal outstretched a breach we couldn’t fix, the cracking surface we were walking shattered under our feet and we were left hanging onto hopes we never believed in. Our minds were not ready, nor our hearts and bodies. He left me and I let him go. I take a deep breath, fighting back tears because the pain running through my veins sets my blood on fire. Anger, ache, emptiness. My world made a little more sense when Bucky was here, sharing coffee and humming Elvis’ songs, my soul misses his quiet heartbeats and his nervous breathing. He carved his name on my skin, he built his home under the pieces of my body and the touch of his lips lingering on my cheek haunts my dreams, waking me up in the middle of the night to face coldness and frozen instants. Every day I can’t find the bright blue of his eyes welcoming back home takes away the electrifying sunrays of my brightest star of all. It’s been this way for twenty-seven days, and not even Liana, the café and the monotony of the city are able to wash away the faint security Bucky’s warm and strong arms around me made me feel. I’m just surviving.

‘ _Are you doing something tomorrow night?_ ’, again, Liana’s voice drags me out the hole I was drowning into. I forgot that I was preparing to leave so she can fully take the evening shift. When I look down at my hands, I notice my helmet, our keys, and my coat. I blink a few times, still lost in the back of my brain.

‘ _No, why?_ ’, I put on my coat and clasp my helmet.

‘ _Do you want to go skating? It’s the last week the ice rink will be open and I think we should have some fun_ ’, her excitement is evident. For one second, it reminds me of a little black-haired girl skating on a frozen lake, ages ago, it seems. Both pictures make me smile. ‘ _We can ask Costin to let us go earlier_ ’.

‘ _Sounds good_ ’, I say with half her enthusiasm. She squeals, jumping like a rabbit in front of me and a loud laugh escapes my mouth. Some customers look at us with frowned expressions. I haven’t visited The Cișmigiu Lake in a while, the reason I wanted to go on my birthday was to bring him with me, show him the rink, and now the place scares me without Bucky, but maybe a different company will let me keep warmer memories. ‘ _I’ll stay on your shift and then we’ll go_ ’, she nods, hugging me tightly and I head out of the café.

I’ve been able to ride my bicycle since the snowfalls stopped. I’m careful, though, because the roadways are slippery and there are still reports of car, bikes and buses accidents. The drivers have to take precautions, and if I want to make it to my dancing lessons safe and sound, I must be cautious as well. Liana’s working with me allows me to spend my time in a different way every evening, at first, I started to take long walks across the city, I explored areas I didn’t know, I discovered new places where I could find books, music and movies I like and I expanded my vision of the country I was living in. Bucharest is full of glorious buildings, its architecture is a mix of old and modern creations, it has a calm beauty, a heighten elegance and refined luxury. It’s slowly turning homelike. I decided to take advantage of the amount of free time I had, but nothing occurred to me, I didn’t know what should I do. I considered cooking lessons, a reading club, even getting a second job, thankfully a colorful poster near my building answered my prayers. Dancing lessons three times a week; rock and roll, swing and jazz music. It was like the grace of the heavens was lighting my path against procrastination. Hail Zeus. I wrote down the phone number and contacted the teacher right away.

My first days were miserable. I have no hands-legs coordination, in consequence, I trampled over my dancing partner five times during the hour we were supposed to be practicing the basic steps. I tripped countless times and collided with other partners other million times. It wasn’t just the fact that I was incapable of changing positions, but the speed and the rhythm in sync are a profane art, dark magic that seemed impossible to control. Terrible and embarrassing, but my reasons didn’t let me give up despite the angry glares I was receiving from the most experimented members and the pity on the teacher’s eyes. When I saw the man and the woman dancing on the poster dressed with 50’s clothes, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about certain boy, the nature boy I once took a picture of, and my mind played me a trick, invading the insides of my head with images of the two of us dancing like the couple in front of me. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, daydreaming about a smile on his face while he spun me around, my laughs, his flowing movements hiding my clumsiness, his strong arms around me and his lips moving joyfully, singing along Chuck Berry’s voice. My brightest star of all dancing between my eyelids and the real world, melting my longing for his soul against my chest, sending whispers of a thrill through my body. I opened my eyes and I knew I wanted to do it without second thoughts. I did it, and now, three weeks later, I’ve improved enough to call myself beginner at such skillful art. Bless my teacher’s patience and my partner’s mercy to this handful of asthma and triple left feet. 

Today’s lesson leaves me exhausted. We were focused on swing music; Larry Elgart, Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman demanded more physical effort from me. Groove walks and Jazz moves were fine, but the aerial acrobatics God knows I’m doing successfully for unknown reasons make my legs and arms feel sore, even my hips hurt a little. I’m proud of my progress, I bet the rest of the dancers too, my muscles are strong and flexible, but today my body felt unusually heavy. The way back home is warm, the cold air of winter has grown kinder and I don’t need to wear thick jackets, gloves and scarfs, a sweater is enough to protect me from the night. I enter my building, head upstairs, not even looking at the door next to mine and walk in my apartment. It holds nothing but loneliness, it makes me feel sick and probably another reason for me to spend as much time as I can out of this place is the missing shape of his presence in my personal life. This was our sanctuary, were he confessed to me who he really was, where I held him close and slept peacefully, our breathings lulling us and our heartbeats reminding us we were not alone anymore. Then, he would knock at my door, the blue of his irises smiling at me, and he would wish me a good day at work because he’s that pure and good. Bucky changes something in the air I breathe, I can’t explain, nor understand how did he flooded the most precious room of my chest, what was the precise moment the ghost of his kisses were printed on the skin of my cheek and why do I feel like he’s taken a piece of my heart I can never get back. Now my mornings are lightless, coffee-less, monotonous and grey. Maybe he didn’t stole everything I am, but he certainly holds together the fragile, shattered fragments of my entire being. I sleep without dreaming, I wake up without feeling, I exist without living. Play, pause, stop and repeat all over again.

I stay for the evening shift with Liana the next day and Costin let us go before six. She’s thrilled, talking nonstop and nonsense, curious and annoyed glares turn in our direction and I’m laughing so hard that my belly starts to hurt halfway to the lake. It’s taking us too long to get there, the traffic makes us stop for several minutes and when she runs out of conversation subjects, much to my surprise, she sings Justin Timberlake’s ‘Carry Out’ quietly. For what I know, she likes Hip-Hop and R&B a lot, the mainstream ones according to her, and even I’ve found myself humming ‘The way I are’ while preparing coffee cups, also, she’s recommend me bands like Imagine Dragons and Arctic Monkeys, saying that they were more like something I would listen to. I haven’t checked them out, but I’ve been thinking about upgrading my music selection and purchase, in Liana’s words, ‘a decent stereo or speakers’. She’s suggested to get rid of my dear Walkman and buy an iPod as well, but I’ve been reluctant to the idea. I close my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh, the sound of car horns makes me pinch the bridge of my nose, the desperate shouts from the drivers getting on my nerves. I regret not bringing a ride on my bicycle to the table, we would avoid the traffic and spend more time at the ice rink. Bless my mind for thinking about it now. Rough shakes on my shoulder force me to shut my eyes open and look around, forgetting for a second where I am.

‘ _We’re here, come on!_ ’, Liana is already standing up, pushing the ring button to stop the bus. ‘ _Rob, this is our stop!_ ’, she urges me. I try to stand up, but my sweater is stuck between my seat and the next one. I grunt, pulling at the fabric and free the piece of clothing. ‘ _Rob!_ ’, she yells almost completely out of the vehicle.

‘ _I’m coming, I’m coming!_ ’, I finally manage to free my sweater, standing up and following her, but my attempt to get out of the bus is frustrated by the doors closing before I take the last step. I press the button, calling the driver until he opens the doors again, letting me climb down the bus. I didn’t go farther, but I have to walk back to Liana’s hysterical laughter. 

‘ _Are you okay? My God, I can’t believe that just happened_ ’, she gasps out, trying to compose herself and failing nicely. Once calmed enough, she asks me why didn’t I make it out on time, and explaining to her the sweater incident only make her break into loud laughs again, prompting me to join her, laughing at the ridiculous situation. ‘Sometimes I wonder how are you still alive, Rob’, she says and we start to walk towards the entrance of the park. The sky was a mix of orange and navy blue shades, its cloudlessness means that winter is fading, and a rush of enthusiasm keeps my cheeks hot and my body lively. I embrace the image before me, the traces of melting snow, leafless trees and silence surrounds our walking figures. ‘I love this place, weather is winter or summer, it’s always magical’, Liana’s comment draws a small smile on my lips. Mr. Tanase’s voice echoes in the back on my head, ‘It’s meant to share with someone special’, he said, and Liana is someone special, a friend, but someone else was meant to share this with me. I look up to the sky, and it’s like Bucky’s face has been outlined on the now dark sky, the very stars twinkling in his eyes. I miss him, I wish he was the one walking by my side, and guilt clenches my chest because I’m being ungrateful with Liana. She wants us to spend good time together, hang out like normal friends do, and I’m yearning for a pacifying company that grows fainter every day since dancing fingers slipped through mine what seems ages ago. And I wonder if Bucky ever was my friend, if the word truly encompasses the thousand ways I feel about him. The sharp urge to protect him, the overwhelming joy that emerges every time his sunray smile baths my face and the selfish need to make him belong to his world, belong to me and only me. The glimpse of a truth I’ve been trying to bury in the depths of my own denial starts to loom out of realization. I shake the thoughts of something too dangerous to even contemplate and focus my eyes on the deserted ice rink in front of us. I frown.

‘ _Where’s everyone?_ ’, I ask, looking around, hoping to spot someone. ‘ _Is it closed?_ ’

‘ _No, it says it’s open there_ ’, she points out the small cabin. There’s an ‘open’ signal on the door, but the lack of people is confusing. ‘ _Many are still working and the first days it’s when everyone comes, or maybe we’re just lucky_ ’, she shrugs and heads towards the cabin. Indeed, it’s open, but people stop coming often as the Christmas Holidays finish, or so tells us the skinny guy behind the counter. He gives us the ice skating equipment and we head outside with a big smile on our faces. Her eagerness is amusing, she squeals and jumps like a five-year-old girl on her birthday, and I can’t help but laugh and enjoy this moment with her because I’m excited too. It’s been so long… We stop at the edge of the rink to put on the skates. ‘ _I just remembered I didn’t ask you if you knew skating_ ’, she says, knitting her brow worriedly.

‘ _I’ll be fine_ ’, I assure her. If she knew, if anyone knew what this means to me, the story I’ve never told about a certain girl who was called the princess of the ice by someone long lost and loved, they would understand. They would see. She nods and we step into the rink.

The moment my feet hit the ice, the fire runs up my body, filling it with adrenaline and magic. My eyes shut in oblivion, my legs and arms flow against the wind, just the sensuous instincts of my moves guide me across the space and the world is reduced to stardust. The sound of the blades cutting through the ice is welcoming, the air piercing the skin of my face as my speed increases sends jolts of rush to my chest and a blissful laugh escapes my lips. I’m a blur of Biellmann, camel and layback spins, charlotte spirals and haircutters. The music playing in the background of my past lightens up the stage, applauses and cheering shouts, flowers and golden medals, sparkling dresses and camera flashes. ‘ _You did well, my dear_ ’, an old man whispers to my ear, ‘ _But it wasn’t enough_ ’. Pain and sweat, one or two broken bones, the burns of the cruelest cold; I’m flying, falling into the cosmos. ‘ _It’s enough_ ’. The beauty of my fierceness, the frenzy of my power. It’s been so long… Shapeless figures, thousands of colors and shooting stars. Bucky’s back pressed against my chest, his laugh ringing on my eardrums, the vibrations fluttering on my ribcage as we break through high buildings. My impetus, his warmth and our freedom. It’s like going back to him, to those days we might have lost forever, it’s like going back to where I can’t go back, the sorrow and the guilt. The icy blue of his eyes mingles with the memory of the happiness we brushed with our fingertips, the peace our nightmares stole from us crawls its way back from the darkness and a single tear that runs down my cheek breaks the spell of a winter without him. I fall on the ice, my chest rising and falling in heavy gasps and loud sobs beg silently for him to come back. Come back to me.

‘ _Rob!_ ’, I hear Liana’s panicked call, but I can’t bring myself to look up. My lungs are burning, the air is impossibly thick, refusing to be breathed. She keels beside me, resting her hand on my back, trying to soothe my shaking body. ‘ _Calm down and breathe, just breathe, Rob_ ’, I obey her, taking deep breaths and when not even that helps me, I take out my inhaler to control the asthma attack. It takes me five minutes to compose myself, I count every second of this agony, wiping the tears off my face. ‘ _Better?_ ’, she asks, a worried tone in her question. I nod, coughing as I stand up. We make our way out of the rink, taking seat on the nearest bench. Once fully recovered, she chuckles and I look at her in confusion, facing both impressed and caring expression on her features. ‘ _I didn’t know you did skate-figure_ ’, I shrug, standing up again. She knows I’m not going to talk about it, so she leads our conversation to a more comfortable direction. ‘ _I never imagined it would look like that in real life_ ’, she imitates my actions, stepping on the ice and skating slowly by my side. ‘ _It’s wonderful_ ’.

‘ _It’s been a long time, but it hasn’t changed at all_ ’, my throat is dry, making my voice hoarse. It’s true, the feeling is the same.

‘ _I don’t know how you did in your golden years, but you did pretty good tonight_ ’, she compliments. ‘ _I still don’t understand how can you do that if you’re unable to run and breathe at the same time, no offense_ ’, we laugh at her last comment, the tense atmosphere easing off a little.

‘ _None taken, I guess_ ’, she keeps looking at me in expectation, but I’m afraid to step out my comfort zone. Our friendship isn’t ready, she knows and she respects it. We enjoy the privacy for a long while, trying silly tricks and skating around, we laugh until we’re breathless, we look like two friends hanging out, having fun and I wish I had brought the camera to immortalize it. People start to arrive to the ice rink at nearly ten o’clock and before we realize, the place is crowded by teen couples and families. The nice moment has ended and we have to get back. There are no words exchanged in our way back to the cabin, we thank the guy who attended us and we leave, heading out of the park. It’s not cold, but a fresh breeze makes me snuggle on my sweater.

‘ _You have a nice necklace there, can I see it?_ ’, somehow, my necklace managed to escape from it’s hiding place and it’s at plain sight. It’s shining, reflecting the milky way. I let her grab the small piece of jewelry and she examines it closely, letting out a huff and looking at me with an amused grin. ‘ _Diamonds and white gold, interesting_ ’, I know her curiosity is eating her alive, but I refuse to go down that path. A wave of sadness spreads over my chest; the necklace is always hidden because every time I look at the crystal clear brightness of the diamonds, all I see is the sky blue color of his eyes, and it hurts. The star-shaped snowflake and his keys carry a lost hope in the bottom of my pocket and it holds the endearing desire pressed against my heart to remember the smell of soap and cotton and something entirely his. It makes him real now when he’s untouchable even in my dreams.

We stop by an Italian restaurant for a late dinner, our bellies growling loudly as we sit down at the nearest table. Another thing Liana and I have in common is our love for pasta, so we both sigh at the huge Bolognese plate the waiter places down in front of us, totally enamored with our food. Chatting goes smoothly, she explains to me the details of her future plans, why does she wants to go to Italy and for how long:

‘ _The weather is better, and the people too_ ’, she says, grimacing at the window to signal the city. ‘ _I wan to live where I have sun most of the year, good pizza and good ice-cream. I really don’t care if I work babysitting for the rest of my life, or preparing junk food, coffee, as long as I leave Romania, I’ll be happy_ ’, her rejection towards her country is not surprising. Many want to move to improve their lifestyle and increase the opportunities of getting a good job, they want to expand their visions, their goals, they want to live better, and I’m happy for Liana. She’s not running away, she’s just growing. 

‘ _I’ve been taking dancing lessons_ ’, I inform her nonchalantly while we eat the last pieces of meat. She hums in approval, smiling widely.

‘ _That’s good, what kind of dancing?_ ’, she asks, stealing the last meatball from my fork. I narrow my eyes at her and she lifts her chin in victory. 

‘ _Jazz, rock and roll, swing_ ’, she rolls her eyes at my answer. ‘ _What?_ ’, I frown, taking the last sip of my lemonade.

‘ _You’re so old-fashioned, and you’re not really older than me_ ’, she says in an amused tone.

‘ _I’ve always been like that, weird, clumsy, weak_ ’, I repeat the same words I was told countless of times by Irina, the taste of rancor strong on my tongue and her playful smile disappears, her expression turns serious at the change of tone in our conversation. There’s a twinge of compassion in her eyes, but also anticipation; I’m letting her in. ‘ _It made me sad when I was little, my father would put one of his old cassettes on his radio and he danced with me so I wouldn’t be sad anymore_ ’, I feel a tight knot on my throat that cuts the air for a brief second, making me gulp. The grief is too heavy, suddenly unbearable, and the wounds unfold themselves at the picture of a face too faint to even recognize, but everlasting in spite of the years separating us. My hands absentmindedly reach to that place between my shoulder blades, where the mark of a stab stings with the same intensity of the rage burning on familiar eyes. I cough, standing up to pay the bill and go home, the hurry hinders my movements and I trip the the table. Liana remains silent. ‘ _It’s getting late, let’s go_ ’, I nod at the exit and she follows, not daring to make a comment about what I said.

We part with an awkward ‘goodbye’. She still has the concerned look on her face, but I ignore it, the short amount of information I gave her was enough to dress me with sorrow. I walk through the streets, my feet drag me back to my building and when I face the staircase, the remoteness of my own existence explodes inside of me. I count every step, every second and every tear. First, second and third, my hands are shaking. Fourth, fifth, sixth, my lungs are aching. Seventh, eighth, ninth, my eyes are closing. My life on rewind, I’m ready to fall, but this time, Bucky’s not here to pick up the wasted pieces of body. I’m all alone again. I walk in my apartment, closing the door behind me and throwing myself over the mattress without taking my clothes off. Shadows and demons assault my dreams, a dense fog clouds the corners of my mind, pale faces stare at me impassively, whiteness infects irises that are supposed to be blue and jet-black hair cuts through the marbled surface of their skin. Cruel, matching and dangerous. The twins. Solid knuckles crash against my jaw, the back of a familiar hand slaps my cheek and their laughs leave me deaf. Weak. Irina spits on my face. Pathetic. Liev kicks my stomach and I curl on the floor. They will finish what they’ve been craving to do since I took the first breath on this world, they will remove the surplus, the garbage, the nothing. I’m nothing. But a soft palm caresses my slaughtered limbs, driving away their violent figures. It’s her, the past, present and future of Irina, and he’s by her side, my greatest crime, my shame and my burden. They’re here, they haven’t change in the slightest, they’re ghosts. Our parents. Gentle and warm, death and time never reaching their features. They’re eternal. My mother cradles me on her lap and my father kneels in front of us. I’m tired, my body is trembling with fear, I’m dead on life and the only thing they can do to help me is to smile. Wake up. The impossibly tender voice of my mother whispers against the top of my head. Stand up. My father nudges my chin delicately, giving me a sympathetic look. We’re here. They’re gone before I embrace their presence, the loneliness flows up and down my spine and I shiver. I’m about to give in to the numbness, I’m going to let go, but frantic shouts won’t let me do it. 

‘ _Robin!_ ’. It’s Bucky. He’s crying out my name. He’s back, he’s here. The sun burning the overwhelming darkness of the sky. My brightest star of all. ‘ _ROBIN!_ ’, he shouts again, impotence and despair evident in his voice. My head is spinning around the infinite space separating our fingers and our need, I want to tell him where I am, but I don’t even know that. How is he supposed to find me? He has to find me, he has to come back to me, and he does. ‘ _Robin…_ ’, I feel his strong arms hooking under my knees and wrapping around my shoulders, lifting me up and carrying me towards the unknown place of happiness and peace. I hide my face in the crook of his neck, his stubble brushing against my forehead and my lips rest on his throat. Happiness and peace. ‘ _I’m not coming back, Robin_ ’, he mutters, and I flinch not at the harsh words escaping from his mouth, but at the emptiness on his tone. Velvet mixed with poison.

‘ _No, no, please_ ’, my hand reaches up to his face and I turn his head in my direction, blue eyes finding my already teary ones. It takes me half an instant to be aware of the things I may had forgotten; how abysmal, lost, how strong, mighty, and how scared and broken he is. This is a dream, but he’s real. We’re real. ‘ _Come back to me_ ’, I plead, trying to verbalize my need for him, unable to stop my fingers from gripping his clothes firmly, grounding myself on him. He puts me down and lets me nestle my head under his chin.

‘ _I got to find her_ ’, he simply whispers. My grip on him tightens.

‘ _Who?_ ’, wet words and heartbreaking confusion is all that can be heard.

‘ _I don’t know, but she belongs to me_ ’, he pulls away from me, gently, but it’s crueler than the sound of our souls ripping apart again. ‘ _I belong to her_ ’, I shake my head and he backs down. I don’t care who is she, I want him here, safe with me, happy with me, but I can’t bring myself to force him to stay. It hurts knowing that he’s free to leave me, the absolute impotence at the sight of him leaving me is just too much. ‘ _Goodbye, Robin_ ’, he doesn’t look at me for a last time, he turns and walks away. For now, for ever.

‘ _No! Bucky, please! Don’t go, don’t leave me!_ ’, I yell at the vacuum, at my lonely agony, at his absence. ‘ _Bucky!_ ’, I beg, but he’s not there to listen. It’s too much blindness, terror and despair. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back. ‘ _BUCKY!_ ’

Wide open eyes push me into the morning light. I fell asleep screaming and I woke up crying. Nothing happens between the movements of my limbs, I stand up and take a shower, putting on my uniform and walking out of the building. No one says anything, ticking steps dance around the tables of the café and when I less acknowledge, my shift is over. I see Irina’s wicked sneer drawn on every window, Liev’s jabs squeeze the air out of my lungs, Alexander’s knife marks with new fire the wound that never seems to heal and it’s impossible to quiet down the voices of my parents, the last words I heard them say and the ones echoing from one summer’s day. And Bucky and the hours, the are always the hours one has to endure after their own awakening in a reality that doesn’t belong to them, and my reality is amorphous and meaningless; Irina and Liev are alive when the one thing they deserve is death, Alexander is secluded, his absolution won’t ever look him in the eye, my parents are merely two names out of a million that will soon be forgotten, Bucky’s gone and I’m still here, why? The answer gets lost inside the hours.

' _Rob?_ ’, Liana arrives earlier. She finds me trying to clasp my helmet, the shaking of my hands is so strong that this simple action can’t be completed. I grunt, tears threatening to expose my condition, burning at the brim of my eyes. She notices, of course she does. She sighs and walks towards me, taking the helmet away and placing her hand comfortingly on my shoulder. ‘ _Come on, let’s get you some of that bitter coffee you love to drink_ ’, I follow her to the kitchen, she doesn’t ask an explanation, her way to support is a cup of coffee and a smile. I believe now that Liana is the family I do have the chance to choose and keep.

She makes sure I don’t look like an overly squeezed ketchup packet when I head out of the café and actually convinces me to spend the weekend with her at work during the evening shift, promising to make it up for the extra time. Once out of her radar, the wind of spring’s approaching arrival invades my nostrils, I take a deep inhale of dirty air and let it out with a sigh that it’s almost painful. I close my eyes, taking in my surroundings, feeling the ground under my feet, the city noises enveloping me with frustration and the tedium swallowing me down its abyss. And then it hits me. Today is different, today feels wrong. I can’t let me do this to myself again, I can’t fall this low, I refuse to be this broken, this useless and afraid. I’m tired of them hunting me, the demons and the ghosts, the sorrow and lost. I don’t belong to them. My world has changed, I’m no longer that weak little girl who was abused by those who were meant to love her, they can’t destroy me anymore, I belong to myself. I have a job where I’m functional and needed, my boss is a humble and honest man who treats me kindly and trusts me, I have a friend who cares about me, that has placed me in the real world and one I have so much to thank for. I have an apartment and a bicycle, and I have Bucky, he’s my home, the place where I’m the safest, happiest. I don’t care about the nightmares; he’s coming back to me.

I walk the rest of my way looking down, stuck on the lines tracing absurd figures on the floor, I feel the the ups and downs of the streets through my shoe soles. I’m aware of the imperfections. The building, the stairs, the doors and the room. They pass by me in a flash of tiredness, I let my body fall down on the mattress like the night before, but this time, sleep rushes over me. No dreams and no demons, I’m peaceful and rested, not alive enough, but awaken enough to take a shower, eat and head out of my apartment without thinking too much. I rummage inside my purse, The Peanuts’ Snoopy drawing in the front of the wallet comes into sight and I half smile at its secret special meaning; twelfth birthday, Alexander’s first gift since he came back from Kiev. I open it, the snappy glistening plastic popping out of the wallet to assure me it’s still there where I never take it from, reminding me that it will never disappear. The silver card. My fingers graze over the sharp edge, it’s cold and thin, and I remember every word I was said the day it ended up on my hands. ‘ _You can use it every time you need. It was made for you. No one will know. Keep it close, keep it secret, no one can know_.’, and then I left USA with a black envelope hidden inside this very purse. I need it right now because I’m about to leave them behind and do something for me. It’s a gift to me. I practically run to my bicycle and head towards the Bucuresti Mall, the perfect place to find exactly what I don’t what I’m looking for.

The Apple Store it’s my first stop. Liana has been gabbling about the new iPhone and my lack of a decent cellphone, getting all dramatic about the matter. I know for sure that Apple’s phones are one of the best devices one can purchase. It’s highly personalized, has better image and sound quality, not no mention it’s impenetrable, impossible to hack, so the decision is taken pretty much by itself. The guy who’s attending me is quite nice, making sure I know what I’m buying and offering me technical support if something’s not working the way it should be in the future. Also, he’s pretty much determined to convince me that every product I take will be the best decision of my life, and when I’m about to pay, I realize that he did his job terrifyingly excellent because I got an iPod and those awesome black Beats headphones and speaker, the new iPhone (much to Liana’s dismay), a MacBook and another iPod for Bucky, plus ten of those bluish-green splashed iTunes cards. I want to call myself a brainwashing victim, but the joke makes me nauseous. I take out the silver card and the cashier quirks her eyebrow. I cross my fingers and pray that she doesn’t ask any threatening questions, and Zeus finally hears my pleas because she saves her breath. I can notice a slight suspicion in her demeanor, but I brush it away, smiling politely and thanking her for such a good service. I walk out of the store quickly, the nervousness increasing my steps and breathing. The next stop is some kind of fabric boutique, the bright colors and shiny décor compels me to get in. I buy a brand-new set of curtains, they have a cool space pattern, shooting stars, planets and spaceships flying around, as well as purple silk-pillow covers, dark-blue velvet cushions and these amazing cotton panda socks. I walk out of the mall with a tiny smile on my lips; I got everything I needed. I feel somewhat guilty for skipping my dancing lessons yesterday, but fatigue overtook me and I truly needed to lay down, sleep and try to breathe after that. I’m careful while I ride to the building, the bags are distributed between the basket and my purse, and once inside, I make sure to let everything in place so when I come back at night, I start to unwrap them and start them up right away.

I arrive at the café by three, the ‘shopping’ didn’t take me long and Liana welcomes me with a huge smile, happy to see that I came. She forces me to sit down and read that book I’ve been trying to finish for one month now, telling me that I’m here as a customer, not an employee, and I thank her because it’s her way to say that she doesn’t want me to be alone, deal with whatever problem I have by myself. She’s my friend. 

‘ _Guess what_ ’, I start. she’s collecting the cups and plates from the empty table next tome, turning her head in my direction. ‘ _I got the iPhone 6_ ’, she narrows her eyes at first, not fully believing me, but knowing that I wouldn’t lie about something like this, her mouth hangs open only to let out a reproach.

‘ _I know I mocked you about your bean, but this is a low blow_ ’, I grin at her fake hurt expression, then a loud laugh escapes from her. ‘ _Good, finally some sense kicking in_ ’, she praises, her hands on her hips.

‘ _I still have to go to Orange and ask them to put the chip in here_ ’, I shrug, taking a sip from my cup. She even gave me a white mocha of courtesy. It’s too sweet, but tastes just perfect.

‘ _We can go on Wednesday, Costin gave us the day off_ ’, she says and walks away with hands full of dirty dishes. The rest of the evening goes by calmly, people arriving, then leaving or staying for a while to relax and have a nice talk with friends. I barely speak to Liana because she’s busy attending the customers, but somehow she manages to sneak out of the hasty rhythm, walking towards me and leaning down. ‘ _Can’t you see the poor guy is dying for you?_ ’, I frown, totally puzzled by her question.

‘ _What are you saying?_ ’, she huffs and sits down next to me.

‘ _Are you asthmatic and blind? He’s been coming here for weeks_ ’, the frown of my face deepens and she gestures to the other side of the café, signaling a guy who just looked away, noticing us turning to him. I look back at Liana and my indifference exasperates her, making her yell quietly. Dramatic. ‘ _He leaves right after you do, and now he’s surprised to see you today_ ’, she says and we turn again towards him. He’s smiling against his cup.

‘ _That’s scary, I don’t need some business man stalking me_ ’, there’s a hint of worry on my voice. I really don’t want anyone paying too much attention to me. Liana nudges my side and smiles devilishly. I examine our customer carefully. His eyes are fixed on the window beside him so I take my time to scrutinize his features; straight nose, slightly tanned skin, full lips, blonde, short hair, big, hazel eyes, perfectly shaved and for what I can see, he’s tall and broad-shouldered.

‘ _He’s handsome, and he looks like a nice person_ ’, I grimace at her comment and then I look down. Yes, he’s handsome, but it’s uncomfortable to think about him like that, I don’t feel attracted to him, to no one actually. I ignore the reason. ‘ _Come on, Rob, you should talk to him_ ’, she laughs when I scrunch my nose at her. She stands up and leaves me thinking about it. There’s not much to think about, he might be a good person, but I’m not interested. I focus on my book, smiling occasionally at something particularly funny. Liana was right, being surrounded by people helps me to loosen up the tight knots of my worry and anxiety that are snaked around my muscles. I enjoy the difference in the way I look around from the opposite perspective and I understand why so many people come to the café. There’s something in this place, it’s peaceful and the serene flowing of the energy ricochets between the walls, the smell of coffee and the voices mix with each other to compose a delightful harmony. I stay until Liana closes the local with Costin, she’s walking towards the bus stop and I wait for her to leave. ‘ _Are you free tomorrow?_ ’, she asks, fixing the silky, blond strands of hair away from her face. 

‘ _No, I have to do laundry, clean, buy groceries and… other stuff_ ’, I answer and she hums in response. The bus arrives and she hugs me. ‘ _I’ll see you later_ ’, I tell her and she nods, kissing my cheek. I see her climb up and I wait until the bus disappears in the farthest corner. When I turn around, my face slams against a thick surface, making me fall harshly on my backside with my eyes closed. Lord Almighty, the door has followed me and I’ll never be able to break free from it. 

' _Oh my God!_ ’, I hear someone cry out, then a pair of strong hands rise me on my feet like I was a small porcelain doll who just fell from the hands of its owner. That easy, and embarrassing. ‘ _I’m deeply sorry, miss, did I hurt you?_ ’, when I’m fully standing up, I dare to open my eyes. I meet with the hazel pair of irises from the café, the handsome man is looking down at me with concern and examining my body to spot any wound. He’s way taller than I thought, the top of my head barely reaching his shoulders, which are way too broad.

‘ _No, I’m okay, sir_ ’, I assure him, my brain still bouncing inside my skull. He mutters more apologies and I try to convince him that I’m not hurt. ‘ _I’ll be fine, sir, it’s nothing serious_ ’.

‘ _I’m so sorry_ ’, he says for the millionth time, but I just smile at him. He sighs and then a charming grin appears on his face. ‘ _You work in the café, right?_ ’, I nod, awkward and intimidated. His so tall, even more than Bucky, I bet. The expensive black suit he’s wearing glitters under the city lights and when his smile grows wider and I see the impossibly white teeth encircled by his inflated lips, I shudder at this dreamy figure in front of me. He’s Prince Charming in the flesh, no doubt about it. ‘ _Was this your day off?_ ’, he asks and I notice how sensual his voice is.

‘ _Yes, but my friend asked me for company_ ’, I answer in a cautious tone.

‘ _That’s very sweet of you_ ’, he praises. ' _I’m Andrei_ ’, he offers me his huge hand to shake it and I hesitantly take it. His face gives away how happy he feels, his eyes shinning bright with excitement, but I’m beyond uncomfortable. His whole appearance reminds me of Liev, the excessive self-confidence and sharp appeal on his demeanor, the elegant mien and absorbing movements, they’re all there. 

‘ _Robin_ ’ I whisper, retracting my hand and crossing my arms over my chest. He frowns.

‘ _Robin?_ ’, he repeats. I know why he’s confused; it’s not a common name. 

‘ _Like the bird_ ’, my instant answer freezes me right there. ‘Like the bird’, he once said. The echo of his voice was heard in tandem with mine, we said it the same in a different time, in a different, distant world. I gasp and he opens his mouth again, probably to ask if I’m fine, but before he even say the first word, I’m smiling politely at him. ‘ _I’ll take my leave, have a good night_ ’, and I turn on my heels, wanting to jog away from him.

Back on my apartment, after Zeus know how much because I refused to hurry my way upstairs and lose the remnants of my lungs, I sit down to unwrap the bunch of things I bought. I start with the speakers and headphones, carefully reading the instructions, paying attention to the part which explains how to synchronize it with other devices. Cool and fluid. Then, I grab the iPod boxes and take out one, leaving Bucky’s for him to open. Maybe he’ll like to have The Rolling Stones songs around to listen to as he pleases. His smile dancing on my mind mirrors on my lips and they find themselves curving into a tiny smile. My heart jolts a little, missing him at the mere thought of his bright figure. I spend the following hours activating the accounts and synchronizing everything, I can’t download music yet because I need internet, but I’ll do that tomorrow at the café. The laptop is the hardest one to unravel, very much so that I fall asleep with the instructive on my hands and chaotic boxes and papers sprawled over the mattress and the floor. Sunday is the quieter day of the week, there are not many customers and it allows Liana to sit and help me purchase music. She also recommends apps, no social media related, and teaches me how download videos from YouTube. I get ones from Elvis, Queen, Chuck Berry and The Rolling Stones, of course, Depeche Mode, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Janis Joplin, ABBA and dancing videos too. It goes on for days, weeks, and then, I don’t need Liana’s help anymore. I’m deep focused on feeding my brain, gathering as much information about any subject as I can, from cupcakes recipes to easy homemade shelves, best TV series and documentaries, but one particular day that Costin asks me to close the café later in the night, I key four letters that have been wandering through the alleys of my mind, something that I should have looked for since the very beginning because it was that simple, but I was blinded by fear and denial: PTSD. 

I know. I could have done more, help him more, but my ignorance was outrageously big. I read the definition, symptoms, management and terminology, taking notes and highlighting what I think is more important to remember. It was that obvious all the time, but I was convinced that my hugs and mundane activities would be enough for him, that they could make him feel less threatened by the world, even his own mind and body; no surprise things ended up that bad. Bucky needs psychological therapy, someone professional who teaches him how to deal and overcome his trauma, but it’s not that simple either. He is dangerous, unpredictable and his story is one that not anyone can hear. He carries 70 years of blood, gunfire and hell over his shoulders, 70 years of being punished every time he remembered Steve, even himself, 70 years knowing that it was going to disappear the second he remembered it. 70 years of emptiness. How could I believe that I was qualified to help him? I have no idea what to do because I don’t know if there’s something to do. Bucky isn’t just broken, he was destroyed, rebuilt, and destroyed over and over again until he became unfitted pieces of something meaningless. Are my hands gentle enough to pick him up, is my heart strong enough to hold him tight? I don’t know, but I can’t stop now. I look for more information, this time the names tapped down on the keyboard are nearly familiar: Captain America. Hydra. The Avengers. Steve Rogers. The Winter Soldier. I don’t find much, it’s just news and Wikipedia pages, the rest doesn’t exist, and it’s like none of them really do. Several other names appear on the text, but I try to reduce the number of people involved on the whole New York alien invasion, the weird planes explosion of D.C. that I know now Bucky had a part in and Sokovia’s tragedy. It’s too much, but it’s worth it. He’s worth it.

I print the articles and website pages first thing in the morning before work. The day has been quite calm and there aren’t many customers. It takes me a couple of days to see the business man again, well, to notice him, and it’s because I have to take his order that I’m being forced to interact with his hazel eyes. He smiles widely when he spots me approaching, fixing his tie and clearing his throat.

‘ _Good morning_ ’, I greet him.

‘ _Good morning_ ’, and he answers happily. ‘ _How are you?_ ’.

‘ _Very good, sir_ ’, he bites his bottom lip, sending waves of terror and discomfort thought my body. I take a deep breath and continue. ‘ _What are you having today?_ ’.

‘ _Vanilla macchiato and lemon pie_ ’, oh, the lemon pie it’s delicious, I think to myself. He has a good taste, at least. ‘ _And, please, call me Andrei_ ’, he smiles, his teeth so white and perfect that they remind me of the evil vampire from bad old movies. I’m probably the sheep. Jesus. I nod and walk away quickly.

I’ve been avoiding the calendar behind the counter, too. The slow action of time has started to get under my skin and I’m aware of it, more than ever. Two months, four days, eleven hours. But he’s coming back in the next infinite seconds. I know, I feel it. Thanks to Costin that lets me stay way too late at night, I busy myself on the internet, searching as far as I can, careful with the truths I might not be ready to process, but it’s been dynamic and I’m getting to know my own reasons to keep going. It’s a question that’s been lingering on the edge of my past ever since Bucky left, but I shake my head, bringing back my thoughts from where I don’t dare to lean over, the very answer is too dangerous, too dark and too lonely.

‘ _The cake was delightful_ ’, Andrei praises, standing up while I pick up the dirty dishes from his table, nodding at him in acknowledge. Liana will arrive at any minute, so I will be leaving soon to my dancing lessons and then home to try the new chocolate and strawberry pancakes recipe for dinner. I’m genuinely looking forward to that moment. ‘ _I’ve been meaning to ask if you prepare the coffee as well_ ’, I nod again, still focused on cleaning the space he used. ‘ _It’s delicious_ ’, he says and I look up to thank him, but he’s smiling from ear to ear, his eyes blinding me from the light they’re concealing. I sense a change in his demeanor, he’s not just being nice, there’s an intention behind his nervous fingers and shaky lips. I have a bad feeling about this. ‘ _Are you busy this evening? The weather it’s getting better, nice enough to take a walk_ ’, there it is. Jesus Christ, why now? I’m not ready, not interested, no nothing. He’s not who I’m waiting for, he’s not the one who’s coming back to me. ‘ _I would suggest coffee, but I think it’s not the most original idea_ ’, he says innocently, a slight shrug matching his effort to look cozy. I’m the one who’s freaking out internally.

‘ _I would love too, but I already have plans_ ’, I babble and I feel somehow bad at the sight of his face falling in disappointment. ‘ _Maybe some other day_ ’, those last words come out of nowhere. My rational thinking was disconnected from my mouth at some point in this conversation.

‘ _Yes, yes, of course_ ’, he sounds more cheerful and I prevent myself from slapping my face out of guilt. ‘ _Thank you_ ’, I turn towards the kitchen, giving him a last, flashing smile. ‘ _I’ll see you soon_ ’, he waves his hand at me and walks out of the café. I’m hyperventilating when Liana appears on the door at the same time he’s leaving, she runs in my direction, ready to assist me if an asthma attack is on it’s way. Thankfully, it’s a false alarm.

I don’t tell her about Andrei’s proposal, she would have ranted about my innate chicken behavior and how in the world do I refuse a date with such a suitable gentleman. My self reprimand is thought by her voice speaking out the words, and it can’t be any better in real life. Jazz and pancakes; no better way to spend my evening. Throughout the next days, we settle on a comfortable routine, Liana doesn’t bring up the business man subject again, instead she’s been asking more about my current research area. I tell her some things, but never everything. She contributes with ideas and suggestions and I listen carefully, my curiosity growing every day. I feel like a kid, but all the things I’m learning reassure my excitement because if I know more, then I will be able to share more with Bucky. It will be soon, I know it. 

We are stuck in a boutique of the mall right now. Costin told us about the yearly Spring Coffee Day that Mr. Tanase hosts and how, in his absence, we’re going to be in charge of the arrangements. We will wear a nice dress and offer cold drinks to every potential customer that walks near the local. Liana’s ‘I’m not wearing a damn flower on my head’ made Costin roll his eyes and stole a chuckle from me. She’s witty and I love the accuracy of it. We agreed to look for dresses in the Bucuresti Mall the next free day we have, so it’s Saturday’s night and Liana is trying her fifth dress in a row. I’m sitting on the armchair in front of the fitting rooms, playing ‘Line Runner’ on my phone when I hear her cursing at something she’s not liking. I already have a dress, although she complaint about the color and austerity of my choice, she’s thrilled about our little escapade and I don’t blame her. We’ve been doing things that brought us closer, we’re girl friends and shopping, chatting and making fun of each other is part of the deal. We’re friends, but not in the same way as Bucky and I were, we were more and less, so many things at the same time while we were nothing at all.

‘ _You can hide it all you want, but I speak fluent Robin by now and you are worried about something_ ’, I pause the game and look up at Liana’s head poking out of the door, narrowing her eyes at me. It’s funny, but she’s serious and there’s no point in lying to her, so I answer honestly.

‘ _I’m nervous, but I don’t know why_ ’, I shrug and she smiles deviously. Yes, her mood is that versatile. 

‘ _Could be that handsome, blonde man spinning around your dogged head?_ ’, I roll my eyes and she giggles, getting back inside the fitting rooms. 

‘ _No_ ’, I grimace at the mention of Andrei.

‘ _You can’t avoid him forever, you know that_ ’, she says from behind her door. I can practically see her grinning, there’s amusement in her voice and I’m sure she rejoices on my awkward attitude towards this situation. ‘ _Give it a chance_ ’, I know she means good, but there’s no way I change my mind. We stay quiet for a while, then she walks out wearing a cerise-pink strapless dress, her slim legs are respectably exposed and her golden hair cascades over her shoulders.

‘ _Get a Chihuahua and the Law degree_ ’, we both laugh at the film reference, but my expression softens when I say: ‘ _You look great_ ’ and her smile turns teasing.

‘ _I know_ ’, I hum a laugh back. She turns to change to her casual clothes. We pay for our dresses and leave the boutique exactly an hour after we arrived. I’m getting tired, but I know this is not over the moment Liana clasps her hands and twists her lips in a mischievous grin. ‘ _Alright, now, the shoes_ ’, I frown.

‘ _I have shoes_ ’, she rolls her eyes at my indignant response but her next words cleanly hit the mark. 

‘ _Those beggar shoes of yours are a joke, Rob_ ’, I huff. She puts her hands on her waist and lifts her eyebrow in a challenging, but kind of cute, stance. ‘ _You can’t buy a pretty dress, comb your hair nicely and then wear those satanic, muddy boots, it’s a crime against the spirit of spring_ ’, she tells me as a matter-of-fact. I indulge her wishes, but I remain unfazed when she shows me a pair of what she calls ‘light gray faux suede strap heeled sandals’. She lost me at ‘suede’. Thanks to the half an hour I whine from another armchair, she hurries up and selects a nice pair of beige heels that are not too high and look really good on her delicate feet. We part ways with our respective shopping bags hanging from our arms and we promise to send each other pictures of our final outfit before leaving for work. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but it’s fun and Liana’s excitement is contagious. 

Sunday morning again. I wake up early to fix my hair, makeup and clothes, and because we have to decorate the local with colorful balloons, posters and whatever we think of would fit. I choose a fresh, natural look, my hair was retouched recently, so the blue is bright and full of life. I have to use some tubes to make sure the waves last till night, even hairspray to help it stay in place as long as it can. It’s a nightmare, but I like the reflection of my body on the mirror. I lost weight, my cheekbones are slightly more prominent, my waist is smaller and my tights are not that full thanks to the dancing lessons. I feel stronger, healthier, and content with the unexpected results of the activity. The accessories that will complete the outfit are a silver, simple choker, no rings or bracelets, and my star-shaped snowflake necklace. They match my shoes and add an elegant touch to the rest of my clothes. I’ve never taken a selfie, but I’m not that bad and Liana’s answer to my picture are a million hearts and sparkles that make me feel proud. I’m already walking out of the apartment, but I stop on my tracks, turn around and pack my Converse and a military-green jacket in case something goes wrong with the heels or it’s too cold later in the night. Once outside, I take the bus because it would be suicide to ride my bicycle wearing what I’m wearing. I arrive at seven o’clock, Liana already waiting for me at the entry and Costin handing us the stuff we’re going to use to embellish the café. 

An hour later, the first customer that walks in is no other than Andrei. He praises the balloons at the door, the flowers and posters on the windows and the music we selected to play during the event. But when he sets eyes on me, his mouth falls open and his eyes show how stunned he is. It makes me blush, and I hear Liana’s giggle next to me.

‘ _You–you look s– stunning– radiant_ ’, he stammers and sighs a laugh. ‘ _Breathtaking_ ’ he finishes and I’m starting to feel self-conscious, beyond uncomfortable and anxious. The way he provokes me to hyperventilate is not a good one, I fight the urge to run, giving him a tiny smile.

' _Thank you, Andrei_ ’, I answer, my nervousness impossible to dissimulate. ‘ _Please, take a sit_ ’, I gesture the spot next to the window that he usually occupies and the day starts. 

At first, I’m convinced that the anxiety I’m feeling is a consequence of Andrei’s words, but as the day progresses, it only escalates to frantic breathing and shaky hands. Liana’s worried expression follows me everywhere, I ask her silently five minutes to compose myself in the bathroom and make sure I can handle today’s work. She nods and turns to the customer she’s attending. I don’t understand where all this hysteria is coming from, my heart is pounding against my chest so hard that settling a normal rate takes me solid ten minutes. Deep breathes and soothing whispers do the trick; twenty minutes later, I’m walking out to the bathroom with a smile on my lips. People praise our good job with the decoration and the taste of the cold drinks of courtesy. Little by little, the anxiety drops to the point I can control the shaking of my hands and my breathing, even Liana seems calmer. 

‘ _Why are you such a chicken?_ ’, she asks, exasperated. I though the subject was buried at least a few hours ago, but she doesn’t think it’s time to leave it alone. She gestures at Andrei’s place and I grunt, frustrated as well. ‘ _He’s very nice_ ’, she’s starting to get on my nerves. 

‘ _Then why don’t you date him?_ ’, I speak harsher that I mean, but even my patience has a limit and she’s pushing all the buttons at the wrong time.

‘ _Pff, I’ll get you a cat, maybe that will work better than men and shoes_ ’, she walks away to grab the biggest poster that Costin sent for yesterday, arriving later than we thought. ‘ _Could you help me put this on the entry_?’, I look at her, annoyed and ready to say ‘no’, but she’s pouting her lip at me, her signature apologetic gesture softening my anger. She has the ‘evil little sister’ complete pack, I’m not immune to her manipulative tricks and she knows it. I end up agreeing and we head towards the main door. There’s a slight pain on my feet because I’m not used to wear high heels. When we realize that I’m unable to reach the threshold, we ask Costin to bring a pair of chairs so I can climb up to put the poster right where we want it. ‘ _God, you really are small_ ’, Liana says half laughing at me. 

‘ _Shut up and hold it_ ’, I command, now pissed at her mocking. She notices and climbs up the chair rapidly, obeying the small, angry and blue handle of grumpiness that I am now, outstretching the poster with her long arms. It looks good, to be honest. 

‘ _I am, I am!_ ’, she declares, holding firmer the paper. I take out the scotch tape and cut two pieces. I’m standing on my toes, barely making it to the highest tip of the poster and it takes a brief moment of instability to falter on my stance and step beyond the edge of the chair. ‘ _Be careful with the– ROBIN!_ ’, but it’s too late, and I’m falling. 

It had to happen. My body rejects any movement coordination, my mind has been drifting away from the present day because I simply can’t understand why have I been so nervous and there’s no rational explanation that quiets the increasing terror inside of me. I’m starting to flow with the river of the world, I’m willing to fight the demons and the ghosts, then why? Why does it feel like falling all the time? I’m falling right now and there’s no one there, I'm going to break and no one cares, I won't ever meet with the familiar embrace of peace, no one will catch me... until someone does. I never hit the ground, the coldness or toughness, I land where is warm and safe, where I’ve belonged the last two months and the place where our scattered pieces fit into the holes we’ve filled so many times with coffee, rooftop smiles and intertwined fingers. He’s here.

Icy blue faces chocolate brown, a yellow dress mingles with a black jacket and the stubbled skin of a chin brushes against the red lipstick of quivering lips. Tightly, he holds me tightly. My brightest star of all. Smiling, he looks at me smiling. My nature boy. So long, so missed. My Bucky. Bucky’s arms, Bucky’s smell, Bucky’s heartbeats and Bucky’s voice. 

‘ _Buongiorno, principessa_ ’, and I swear I hear my soul bursts into sunrays, starlight and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here it is chapter 15 and God knows how happy I feel for finally updating. It was a really hard time, you know. I had this awful writer insecurity, I didn't know if it was worth to continue this fic because my last update didn't got comments as the other and I know it's kind of dramatic, but as a writer, you want to know what people has to say, weather they're rough critics or encouraging words. Due to this inner conflict, I spent a lot of time reading fics on Tumblr that gave me hope and inspiration, so I'm going to share the writers I love the most to read because Jesus they're just amazing. Shout-out to them, give them love!:
> 
> \- [bovaria](http://bovaria.tumblr.com)  
> \- [totheendofthelinepal](http://totheendofthelinepal.tumblr.com)  
> \- A special mention to [buckywiththegoodhair](http://buckyywiththegoodhair.tumblr.com) for her series 'Catch Me' inspired the last part of this chapter and the beginning of the next.  
> \- [theycallmebucky](http://theycallmebucky.tumblr.com)  
> \- And or course the one and only [thegraytigress]()
> 
> THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME LIFE YOU ALL WONDERFUL BEINGS THAT WRITE THOS STORIES WE LOVE!!!!
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope I can update sooner this time :) The next chapters will be a very critical point of the story because we'll se Bucky coming back along with some one else that will force Robin to fight for the freedom she's denied to herself. Also, we'll know more about those reason she talks about all the time. I promise I will give them a little happiness ;) What do you think about the new characters? Liana and Andrei, they're gonna play a big part at some point of the story and I'm excited to star writing it :D PS: The Tumblr gift set with the videoclip will be up within the next two days, I promise :) Have a beautiful day, night, evening. Love you all :D


	16. She Will Be Loved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OPEN [THIS LINK](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KrYHKn8d_w0) IN A NEW TAB AND RUN BACK HERE!!!

Is it really her? The heat of another human being is foreign to me, but I know this, the immediate response of my body cries out that this touch is not just familiar, it’s cherished and yearned for. This blue shines like hers, moonlight skin as soft as hers, and she feels the same as her, because it’s her. My little bird, nested in my arms, warm and fragile, the intensity of her brown eyes something I never imagined I would miss this madly. The time paralyzes and we get stuck in the seconds. We don’t move, we stare at each other to recognize the faces we haven’t seen in so long; it’s all eyes and mouths. Her legs hang over my covered metal arm and the flesh one cradles the rest of her body against my chest. The sound of her breathing, the fast thudding of her heart and the smell of apple and marshmallow are too intimate and so lovely that the words slip through my lips before I even think them. 

‘ _Buongiorno, principessa_ ’, and they make sense because she too fell from the sky right into my arms. How did this happen? I don’t know, I don’t care. The way back to the building I left two months ago lead me to this precise moment and place where our meeting was urged by her falling and my passing by just in time to catch her. _Robin. Rainbow Robin_. A wave of fear makes me stiffen under her; I’m terrified that she’s going to disappear at any second, that she will come to her senses faster than me and will push me away. I don’t deserve to hold her like this, I left and she’s the one who’s returning to my embrace.

‘ _Robin!_ ’, someone’s voice is calling her name and steps rush towards us, but I’m too aware of the way her shape molds into mine and my mind has travelled too far from my body that I simply ignore it. I want to run away with her and be with her and keep her like the fucking possessive bastard I am. It’s been so long and damn it I can’t stand another breathing without her. ‘ _Are you alright?_ ’. Robin refuses to tear her eyes away from mine, but she manages an answer to a girl’s alarmed question.

‘ _Yes, yes I’m fine_ ’, her voice breaks through my skull and I react immediately. I put her down with careful movements, making sure her feet are firmly grounded to the pavement, her hands linger on my shoulders and I just keep looking at her like an imbecile. I scan her body, searching for injuries like second nature, realizing just how beautiful she looks with the bright yellow dress and wavy, longer hair, all dolled-up and nervous. God, I’ve missed her so much that it hurts to let her go for a the briefest of moments.

‘ _Thank you, sir_ ’, we look at the blonde girl standing in front of us now, brown eyes letting go of me and I already long for them. Robin clears her throat, blushing intensely, and I look down, embarrassed and nervous too.

‘ _You’re welcome_ ’, I whisper. An uncomfortable silence settles between the three of us. The blonde girl asks Robin if she’s sure she’s okay and I almost scoff; of course she is, I’m back and I would never let anything harm her, not even the damn floor. They turn to me, one pair of lips smiling, the other timidly twisted at the corner and the anxiety starts to flow back, forcing me to look away. ‘ _What are you celebrating?_ ’, I frown at the bright decorations on the entry. 

‘ _Oh! It’s our Spring Coffee Day, sir_ ’, the blond girl answers happily. ‘ _We’re giving cold drinks of courtesy_ ’, she explains and I nod. ‘ _Would you like to come in?_ ’, her invitation sounds sincere, a polite and excited tone filling her voice. Like hell I’m going to accept. Robin would get a heart attack and I don’t feel comfortable to be around people yet, much less with her among them. I need time to clean myself and settle back on my apartment, I also I want to talk to her, more than anything, and I will wait at the building until she finishes working. End of the story.

‘ _No, thank you, I– I have to–_ ’, I stammer out and the girl’s face falls in disappointment. She’s a bitter replica of the motel’s receptionist. I’m sure as hell that I can’t stay here, I don’t know how much it will affect Robin, I don’t even know if she wants to see me at all, she at the verge of snapping at me and kick my ass out of her workplace. I’m kind of waiting for her to do so, but for some weird reason, she’s taking too long.

‘ _Please, stay_ ’, Robin’s plea shoots an arrow straight to my heart and I’m screwed up. I have no willpower to turn her down, God knows how much I owe her, and denying her such an innocent request would be the most terrible mistake of my existence. I’m entirely hers now. I nod, defeated and panicked, and we head inside the place, a café full of posters and balloons and Stevie Wonder’s song playing from the background. That’s Robin’s doing, she loves ‘My cherry amour’.

They guide me to one of the farthest corners away from the rest of the customers, thankfully, and I put my backpack on the empty chair next to me, hiding my hands under the table. Robin disappears from my sight the first chance she gets and her coworker, I guess, takes my order with eagerness. A cup of coffee with lots of cream and sugar, and a lemonade as courtesy drink. She writes down the order and leaves, giving me some space to let out a sigh of relief I didn’t notice I was holding. This was a bad decision. It’s too crowded in here and if I don’t put my anxiety on check, I’ll end up burning all down. I’m so used to be secluded, alone or alone with Robin that this environment with strange eyes stealing glances at me, laughs and cheerful conversations is freacking out my nerves. In addition, I haven’t taken a shower in days, no sleep and no rest either, my clothes are dirty and my hair greasy. I must look like a beggar, someone who might attempt an assault, someone dangerous. This is definitely a bad idea. My senses refuse to contemplate what being ‘off-guard’ means, my eyes roam from side to side of the small local, up and down, rounding up every object and person, the short hairs of my nape rise in anticipation and my ears filter the sounds that could be out of time and place. I’m ready to jump into action if things go south, I’m determined to kill whoever I have to kill to keep Robin safe. That’s my highest priority. I reckon the ammos inside my backpack, but I only have available a couple of magnum revolvers, no rifles or grenades. Damn it. The chairs and table might serve, the cutlery as well, but it’s still not enough and I can’t risk Robin to have an asthma attack if we need to run. Damn it again. I’m thinking about alternative escape or attack strategies for something that is not likely to happen. It’s my messed-up brain in action, playing stupid tricks to my paranoia and apprehension. 

‘ _Do you know that guy?_ ’, a shrill voice catches my attention and I turn my head, looking for the source of my watch’s intrusion, just to spot a bundle of blue hair glowing next to that girl with the pink dress behind the counter. They look away when my gaze sets on their direction, Robin’s expression contorting at my awareness. I goddamn know that is low, but I pretend that I can’t hear what they’re talking about, actually deep focused on their ‘private’ conversation. I’m a super spy, after all.

‘ _No, I– we– not really_ ’, Robin’s answer is not surprising. She wouldn’t tell her coworker if we’re related in any way, she knows exactly why, but maybe, in the back of my mind, I wish she was free to do it. 

‘ _Well, he’s terribly hot, dirty and all_ ’, the other girl says. What the hell. I hear Robin snort.

‘ _Shut up, Liana_ ’, she says and there’s a quiet thud following her demand. I’ve never seen her angry, but then again, there haven’t been a reason for her to be upset at something, or someone, I think. She’s been frustrated and nervous, terrified, still anger is not a reaction I associate with her kind and gentle features. It’s definitely something I don’t look forward to see, ever.

‘ _You’re blushing! Did you like him?_ ’, Robin lets out another infuriating noise. This girl Liana is clearly exasperating her and in consequence, exasperating me. I wouldn’t need more than a look from those lovely brown eyes to run towards her, take her in my arms and get the hell out of here. I would take her to our building, our home, or the rooftop and I would squeeze her tiny figure against mine, arms to arms and legs to legs, hold her so tight that she would become a part of me, entirely and purely. I would kiss every corner of her face, lips to nose and eyelids, to cheek and jaw, until my mouth finds that heart-shaped place where is warm, soft and rosy and what the hell am I even thinking? ‘ _So, Robin likes creepy strangers with beautiful blue eyes, but no charming men in suits, who would have told you were so– ouch!_ ’, Liana is smacked. It was a matter of time.

‘ _Next time, I will throw you these diabolic shoes and I’m not kidding_ ’, this situation is not funny, but I can’t stop myself from chuckling dryly at her menacing words. Robin’s steps lead her to a room out of my hearing reach, leaving me worried and more uncomfortable than before. 

My order is brought shortly after their argument, Liana startles me with my coffee on a tray and coquetry on her stance. She asks me if I want my lemonade right now or if I prefer to wait. Later, it can wait, we can wait for Robin. She nods and walks away. I try to relax on my chair, playing with the spoon and the napkin, taking small sips of the coffee although I won’t burn the tip of my tongue. I must kill time with whatever I think of, yet I have to be careful not to think too much about the last couple of months. Russia, winter and Natalia. I don’t want to lose my mind into the information from the files Maria gave me, nor those secrets that remain deep buried in my throat. I’m back and this where I am now. Ten minutes later, I hear her steps again, the clacking of heels over the wooden floor disappeared and is replaced by a familiar one, a subtle creak that forces me to verify my assumptions. Her dirty Converse shoes, of course. My rainbow girl is back. She looks funny, her dress contrasting with the black snickers, roaming between the tables, gracefully clumsy, but her eyes never meet mine. Please, look at me, little bird. I’m here, I’m back. The clock sets three and then four, I don’t even know what time is it, what exactly I’m doing or thinking, when her tinkerbell voice rumbles in the air.

‘ _I think I’ll go early today_ ’, for the first time in hours, she steals a glance in my direction just to turn her head quickly, like her eyes were never set on mine. I frown at the now empty cup in front of me. 

‘ _Are you feeling good?_ ’, Liana asks.

‘ _Yes, I have…_ ’, Robin trails, but this time I don’t look up to meet her face, listening to her instead. ‘ _I have to go home as soon as possible_ ’. One of the things I admire the most about her is her capacity to let people know that she’s not going to explain herself. It’s not a rude answer, it’s gentle, but vague.

‘ _Alright_ ’, Liana seems to know this too because she doesn’t push on the subject. ‘ _Do you mind if I ask him his number? I could hand it over if you’re interested after all_ ’, there she goes again. I don’t have to look over them to know that they’re talking about me. More than nervous, I’m getting tired of her reluctance to drop the issue.

‘ _What? Wait, no! He doesn’t even–_ ’, Robin’s voice is beyond desperate. She sighs and I’m about to stand up, tell this annoying girl to leave her the hell alone and leave this place right away to go where I can lock her inside my arms and protect her precious being from the rest of the world. We don’t need them; I don’t need anyone but her and her blueness. ‘ _Why are you so engrossed with him?_ ’, she asks. I picture her frowned expression.

‘ _Why are you so interested in me leaving him alone?_ ’, that’s it. Robin doesn’t need this shit from her. I look down at my cup, an idea formulating in my brain. ‘ _You have one man eating from the palm of your hand and I have no problem asking this divine other man to–_ ’

‘ _God, Liana, what’s wrong with you?! Just– you–_ ’

‘ _Excuse me, miss?_ ’, I call from my table, raising the cup with a shy smile on my face. ‘ _I would like another cup_ ’, if I’m going to save her from another stupid argument, I might as well pretend to be a normal customer. For her sake and mine.

‘ _Yes, of course!_ ’, Liana volunteers impatiently, but Robin holds her arm back and gives her a stern look. Her authoritarian bearing projects them as a pair of sisters, Robin being the older one scolding her little sister. 

‘ _I got it_ ’, she says and walks towards me. I take in the sight of her like this, glowing as she steps closer, her yellow dress waving in synch with her movements, parts of her skin she’s never worn so exposed making me want to graze my fingertips over her shoulders and feel the curvy shape of her legs tangled with mine. These thoughts are strange to me, and I wonder if she has always looked this glorious, or if I have always felt so mesmerized by her beauty. There are too many questions, and she remains the only truth that matters. She brings a coffee kettle, her hands shaking as she pours more liquid on my cup. Apple and marshmallow invading my lungs because she’s so close, it would take a short motion of my hand to caress the tip of her elbow. 

‘ _Thank you_ ’, I whisper. ‘ _Robin_ ’ and I swear I see her shudder. A brief moment, a silent exchange and I’m entirely hers again. She flashes a secret smile that is solely meant to me from the corner of her eyes. The seconds pass by as a gunshot and she’s gone. I miss her already.

It has always surprised me how evenly she reacts to precarious situations and her indifference to some of my actions disturbs me. When I told her my true identity, what I remembered of it, she acted rather understanding, even consoling, and during our time apart I tried to unravel the logic behind her reasoning. I’m not a great thinker, I don’t understand my own mind’s processes, but I came to the conclusion that Robin doesn’t reason, she just speaks unwary and irrational words that scare the hell out of me because she doesn’t realize how serious they are. But then, when she settles down enough and thinks through the situation, she steps back terrified and disoriented, all of her emotions lashing out at her. It was what happened to us, that’s why she asked me to give her time and distance, that’s part of the reason I left. None of us have full control over or minds and bodies, but maybe we can help each other to learn more about them. I know that Robin is afraid of something, I have the feeling that she’s hiding it from me and it’s that ulterior motive what encourages her to overlook her own reality. It’s going to be different now, I’m not going to let her blind herself with care and compassion, she can’t be that kind to me when I don’t deserve it. It’s six o’clock when the customers start to clear up the café, the music dims its tempo and the sunlight loses intensity. It’s peaceful, still I’m losing it. I want to walk over Robin and beg her to leave with me, go home, but she asked me to stay, so I will. Maybe we can grab something for diner, I haven’t seen her eat and she’ll be hungry by the time they close. A hungry Robin is not acceptable.

‘ _Have I already told you how breathtaking you look today?_ ’, an absurd question makes me turn immediately, almost choking on the sip of coffee, to a man sitting in the opposite side of the café. He looks like a business man, blonde and tanned, I can tell by the elegant silver suit he’s wearing and the briefcase on the floor next to him. And _he’s flirting with Robin_ , his smug grin sends nauseous waves of anger through my body, the way he tilts his head, charmingly and too fucking cozy makes me clench my jaw and my fists tighten into balls, totally ready to crack his neck. Who the fuck is this guy? ‘ _I was wondering if we could take that walk I told you about, we can have a nice dinner, then, if you want, go somewhere else_ ’. He’s a dead man.

There’s tension building up in the air, I’m torn between standing up, walk to them, beat the hell out of him and kidnap Robin, or just shoot at him from my seat, and kidnap Robin. It takes all of my willpower to stop my hand from reaching to my backpack and take out the revolver. I’m going to put a whole on this man’s head, my flesh hand actually itching when he leans forward to her, waiting for her answer and for some reason, I want to hear her answer too. How much do they know each other? Does she like him back? She was picking up the dirty dishes that are now shaking on her hands, awkwardness evident in her expression. I’m holding back from slamming my metal arm against the table, throwing one of the pieces, the biggest one, at him, but Robin’s voice cuts off my line of thought. 

‘ _Thank you, Andrei_ ’, her voice is shaky, looking everywhere but to him. She clears her throat, then opens her mouth as if she were to answer, but she shuts it back quickly. It takes her a few moments to compose herself and I notice her eyes fighting to avoid looking to me. ‘ _I know that you– I mean– you want to–_ ’, my breath hitches on my throat, I’m desperate to know what she’s going to say, if she’ll accept or decline his invitation. I want her to say ‘no’ right away, tell him that she’s coming with me and that he so much can go and screw himself, Damn it, Barnes. ‘ _I’m deeply sorry, but I– I can’t…_ ’, the last words speak for themselves and I’ve never been so relieved in my whole life. 

‘ _It’s alright_ ’, he nods and looks down, clearly upset, even sad. ‘ _I understand, don’t worry_ ’, he takes out his wallet and leaves the money on the table, standing up and offering her a gentle smile. He’s taller than I thought, Robin’s form is insignificant compared to his. ‘ _I’ll see you later_ ’, he says and she nods. He better get the hell out of my sight before I lose my cool and rip his head off. ‘ _Have a wonderful day, Robin_ ’, but when I see him leaning down to kiss her cheek, every muscle of my body shouts out in anger because he invaded her personal space, because he was so close to her skin that he must have smelled the apple and marshmallow. Jesus fucking Christ, hold it together, you sick, possessive idiot! Why am I so furious about this, what is that twinge of hurt forming a tight knot on my throat and the revulsion shrinking my stomach? 

‘ _You too, Andrei_ ’, Robin whispers as he straightens up, walking out of the café, leaving her practically hyperventilating. A sudden wave of frustration mixed with guilt rushes through my body; it seems that no one is willing to give her a break. First, my arrival out of nowhere, then Liana with her annoying comments about me and then this guy flustering her, but when her eyes finally set on me, her whole expression softens. 

I’m confused by her reaction, expecting that she would be more affected by my presence, but as I said, she doesn’t deal very well with these kind of situations. It will crumble down later, I’m sure of that. She sighs and heads towards a door that leads to another room, her quiet steps rumbling inside my skull. I should go and let her work in peace, I’m harassing her and making her just as flustered. Ironically, it’s better that I get the hell out of her sight. I will wait for her at the building and if she wants to talk to me, we will talk, now I see that I’m being a nuisance. I take out my wallet, but when I’m about to ask for the bill, I hear her voice again, my eyes instinctively searching for the source of the tinkerbell and summer breeze.

‘ _Costin_ ’, she calls the brunette man behind the counter. He’s focused on the till, but lifts his head to the person talking to him. ‘ _I’m not feeling well and I wanted to ask you if I could go earlier_ ’, my guilt and concern grow because it somehow feels like it’s my fault that she’s having such a bad time. On the other hand, I’m worried that she’s feeling sick, weather is an asthma attack or something else. I scan her body, and she’s trembling indeed, the natural, rosy flush of her cheeks is gone and her lips are dry, colorless. I prepare myself to jump from my seat and run towards her in case that she faints. She’s holding it pretty well, yet it never hurts to be ready.

‘ _You look a little pale, actually_ ’, Costin answers with a frown, examining Robin’s face. We both wait for his answer, but I honestly don’t care if he says ‘no’. I’m taking her home anyways. ‘ _Go, Liana and I will handle it from here_ ’, he says and smiles at her. Robin nods and thanks him, walking hurriedly to the back door. 

I raise my hand as soon as she leaves, asking Liana for the bill. I pay and hand her the tip, it’s not much but she seems contented with it. She thanks me and wishes me a good evening, saying that she hopes to see me around. I nod awkwardly, walking out of the café only to sigh in relief the moment I breathe the dirty air of the city. It’s over. This is it, this is the chance I’ve been given to finally talk to her and clear things up between us. What are we going to clear up? I don’t know, but I need to explain to her why I left, what retained me more than I planed and why I so desperately need her forgiveness. I’m standing at one side of the café, not in front of the entry, but where I can see when she comes out. It’s the strategic reflex kicking in. Fifteen minutes pass by and I’m fighting back the urge to go inside and look for her, make sure that she’s okay, that she didn’t faint or worse, but when I’m about to head back, there she is. Robin. A backpack hanging on her shoulder, her heels on her left hand. _She comes in colors everywhere_. Her skin covered by a green jacket. _She combs her hair_. The waves of her blue hair have faded a little. _She’s like a rainbow_. I can hear The Rolling Stones playing some place in the distance, the song that belongs to her, to us. 

‘Robin’, I sigh out her name, making her turn to my direction. I see the chocolate of her brown eyes melt, they grow tenderer and loving and I’m craving for the feel of the whole of her cradled on my chest. I want to embrace her tiny figure and hide her from the world. I want to be with her, just for a little while, the seconds she let me would be enough, I swear. I move carefully, watching every flexion of her muscles, analyzing her reaction; if she steps back, I’ll leave her alone. But she doesn’t, she’s rather calm, taking the last step for us to be facing each other. I take her in, her upturned nose, heart-shaped lips and childish features. She is the same bright blueness and sunset serenity. I’m not really thinking of what I’m doing when I lift my right hand, gloved palm open, shaking in fear because there’s always the chance she rejects me. _I don’t want you to be near me_. The words still burn my ears. She will back down with an offended expression, I’m almost sure that she’ll do it, I already hear her demanding yells, her sweet voice full of contempt and the inevitable shattering of my heart. But I’m not imagining what’s happening; she’s rising her hand to meet mine, just like that day we spoke for the last time, and the moment our palms collide, every piece falls into the right places. It’s a secret greeting, a silent reassurance that we’re here, that we’re real. Maybe this is what soldiers feel like when they come home, embraced and safe, the inner sense of belonging flowing through their veins as they see their beloved ones, tears of joy and relieved smiles on their faces. It’s the peace after the war, and Robin feels like peace and home. She slides her fingers between mine, too gently and familiar, and I close my hand around hers, drawing circles on her knuckles with my thumb. I bring our linked hands up to my face and she cups my jaw, rubbing my cheek to comfort the tension there, and I lean into her touch. It’s been so long…

‘I want to show you something, is that okay?’, I whisper, never tearing my eyes off her, paying attention to any change in her expression. She nods and I let out a shaky breath, genuinely thankful. She removes her hand from my face and I pursue it unconsciously, missing her, always goddamnit missing her. I turn around and gesture her to follow me, my nervousness hindering my movements. The calm silence makes us company on our way to the small park in the next block, I avoid looking at her walking by my side because I won’t have the strength to stop myself from pulling her into my embrace. Should I talk to her? What could I tell? Think, Barnes, think. ‘Your bicycle?’, my brain speaks by itself, again. I regret the question immediately because she probably got rid of it, she’s just too polite to tell me. She looks up to me with an apologetic expression, like she could possibly imagine the implication I tried to hide. 

‘I couldn’t ride with this’, she gestures her dress. Of course she wouldn’t get rid of her bicycle, you idiot, she liked it, besides, riding with that lovely, yellow dress wouldn’t be practical. ‘And these’, she lifts the heels. I nod and fight the impulse to grin. It’s adorable to see her so differently dressed and combed, never less beautiful, and then look at her feet, a reminder of her real essence. We enter the park, it’s quiet and few people are walking through the aisles, some of them settling on the fountain, the lights above the benches turning on as we approach one of them and we don’t hesitate to sit right away, like we’re both desperate to talk, have time alone, together. We’re facing each other, her eyelashes seem impossibly large under the light falling from the lamppost and her skin is whiter than the moon. A lighting flashes across my mind and I reach for my backpack, remembering what I had kept in the safest pocket inside, afraid that I might break it.

‘I got something for you’, I say when she frowns at my hurried movements, and I catch a glimpse of excitement in her eyes. I struggle to get the damn thing out, but once I succeed, I hand it to her and she takes it carefully. It’s a music box that I saw in a small town near Kiev; I was walking down a street, blending into the crowd, when I spotted an old man sitting on the floor, a tablecloth with vintage jewelry in front of him. I took a look at his commodity, there were lockets, necklaces, bracelets, a pocket watch, and then a little box that outstood from the rest of the pieces. It wasn’t simple, mostly silver with sapphire-blue touches, leaves patterns and a trail of six-sided stars that made it look more elegant. ‘ _It belonged to royalty, sir_ ’, said the man. ‘ _Open it_ ’. I did as he commanded, taking the circled box in my hands. It had a couple in dancing position inside, the back of the top had a painted bird and white trees. ‘ _The story says that it belonged to one of the princesses, the youngest daughter of the last Emperor of Russia, and it was the most precious object she owned_ ’, he explained and I frowned. ‘ _It came with a necklace, but both were lost after the Revolution, or so they thought_ '. I didn’t bother to ask how did he get it; he probably stole it. ‘ _Such invaluable piece of art it’s meant for someone just as special_ ’. And the only one I could think of was her. It was always going to be her. But I didn’t have the money to buy it, so I placed it back down, disappointed that I couldn’t afford a gift like this. ‘ _Take it_ ’, I was taken aback by the man’s words. ‘ _Why?_ ’, I asked him, my eyes narrowing in suspicion. He straightened to face me and his expression softened. ‘ _You have that look in your eyes… You already thought of someone who is that special for it to give_ ’, the air of my lungs came out in a quiet gasp and I tried to hide my own shock. It was not the frightening realization that he could read me so easily, a trained spy who is supposed to be unfazed and detached, but the fact that my eyes gave away feelings that not even my heart had confessed to itself. I took it, and here we are. ‘I saw it and thought of y– thought that you’d like it’, I correct myself quickly, my voice unsure, waiting for another imaginary rejection.

‘I do’, she hurries to answer. ‘Thanks’, she smiles at me the way she used to those nights when spent watching movies and eating ice-cream. A smile that somehow belongs to me. It takes her thoughts and emotions four seconds to sink into her head and heart. ‘Bucky…’, she whispers, the corner of her eyes filling with tears. There it is. The breakdown. I don’t hesitate on taking her in my arms, there’s no fear, just need and longing overpowering my rational thinking. Let the affection display go straight to hell. She doesn’t restraint herself either, crawling on my lap, the music box getting lost in the folds of her dress as she hides her face in the crook of my neck. I lift her and guide us under a tree not far from the bench, where we can melt into each other without shame, leaving our stuff within my sight reach. ‘Bucky, you’re here’, she mutters in hard sobs. ‘Bucky, Bucky…’, she repeats my name, making every one of my muscles clench in despair. We lay on the cold grass, her trembling body ends up covered by mine, her legs open, letting one of mine nest between them, and my arms wrap around her waist, her fingers gripping my jacket tightly.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry’, I repeat back against her chest and her sobs grow deeper. I hate the sound of her crying. I would kill anyone and rip the world to shreds to stop her from crying. But it’s me who’s making her this sad, would I be strong enough to end my life so she can always wear a smile on those heart-shaped lips? Yes, a million times, a million lifetimes, yes. ‘I’m sorry I left, ‘m sorry it took me so long, but I came back, I’m here’, I assure her, kissing her throat and the the spot behind her ear.

‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why, Bucky?’, she pleads, cupping my face to force me to look up to her.

‘I couldn’t…’, I whisper, unable to tell her how hurt and lost I was. ‘You– that day– it– it didn’t–’, I can’t formulate a complete sentence, my brain is a mess, fucked-up to the bottom.

‘I didn’t know where– when… I thought you–’, a new wave of sobs strangles her words. ‘I should’ve never asked you to stay away’, there’s regret, guilt in her voice. She’s apologizing, closing her eyes and turning to the side, like she’s ashamed of what she said.

‘No, no, no, Robin, look at me’, I untangle us a bit and she obeys, our eyes meeting in frantic searching. My elbows settle at each side her head, her hands running up my chest, finally digging her fingers into the hair of my nape. I lean down until our noses are brushing and I close my eyes, drowning in our closeness for a brief moment. ‘I hurt you’, I whisper, opening my eyes, facing her broken expression. ‘You pretended that it didn’t matter, but it did’, I caress her cheek, comforting her. It’s painful to admit that out loud, but it’s true, and she needs to hear it. She pushes me back in a sudden and harsh motion, flipping so she’s on top now, her legs straddling my thighs. I grasp the fabric of her dress covering her lower back and her hands never set free of my hair. I don’t want her to. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to leave you either, I was wrong and stupid and–’

‘I won’t ever let you go, you hear me? If you leave, I’ll go too, or you’ll stay and so will I’, her statement leaves me breathless. So ferocious and penetrating, like she’s as determined as me to cling into this sick need to be in each other’s embrace. Unwavering. ‘Promise me, Bucky, promise we will stay together’, she tugs my hair, maybe unconsciously, to empathize her demand, and a powerful rush of life sets my vision to fire. It’s boosting and consuming us both.

‘Yes, God, yes’, I say without wasting another second. I grab the back of her head and push her forward to me, my lips brushing against her mouth as I speak. ‘I belong with you, you’re my home’, she lets out a shaky sigh, but I’m not sure what does it means. She shivers. ‘I’ll take care of you, be with you and if I’m stupid enough to leave again, I will come back, Robin, I will come back to you, don’t I always?’, she nods, smiling with honest joy at me.

‘Stay with me’, her lips are moving against mine now. ‘Please, stay with me forever’, the fine line between begging and claiming is hazy, but I don’t care. I will give her anything she asks now and forever, even if it’s a lie and I won’t be able to keep that promise.

‘I will, for fuck’s sake, Robin, I will’, I want to kiss her, Christ I’m dying to kissing her right fucking now, but I don’t, and I won’t because we’re not ready. The four-lettered word is stuck on my throat and I repeat to myself that we’re not ready to hear it. The despair turns into anger, I’m angry at her for making me feel all these things that are still strange to me, and although they cloud my mind to the point of utterly blindness, one thing is certain; she’s real, and she’s here. She’s mine and I’m hers. ‘God, can’t you– can’t you see what you do to me, what you’ve always done to me?’, she presses her body further into mine and there’s friction in the space between us. I bath her with open-mouthed kisses on her throat, collarbone, and I dare to raise goosebumps over the skin of her chest, avoiding that single spot I’m thirsty to taste. ‘You have no idea how much it hurt–’, I grunt and she leans back, looking at me with blue fire on her eyes. 

‘Yes, I do’, she kisses my jaw, a jolt of pleasure lingering there. ‘I felt it too’, she says and I let her push me down on the grass. The silent confession knows no boundaries. She shares my suffering, she’s accepting the very little I have to offer, the scars, the fear, and while I have no hope left for me, no illusion of redemption, I want to be more for her, I will be more.

She cuddles against my right side, her head rests in my shoulder and my flesh arm presses her against my boiling chest. One of her hands wonders under my shirt, her nails gently scratching my pectorals with an unbelievable intimacy that I’m sure I will die of hunger. My metal hand brings up her left leg to place it across my stomach, I caress the creamy skin from behind her knee, stopping mere centimeters away from her thigh. We’ve never touched like this, we’re bold and we ignore that we’re violating the other’s personal space, but that’s the whole point of it, that it doesn’t feel like an intrusion, it’s oddly familiar and heartening. I’m aware of the trust in my own body, her trust in me after I’ve hurt her physically and emotionally, and I just feel so fucking blessed for it. I don’t deserve any of this, I’ve never had, she sure as hell deserves a better man by her side, but this might me the only chance we’ll be given to _live_. I’m strong enough to protect her, fight for her, and she’s gentle enough to hold me together. The power she has over me is not compelling, it’s nothing that forces me to lock in the rage of the monster, the killer who was kept in the cold for so many decades, it’s a passive reminder that it’s not everything I am. It’s different from what Natalia did, we channeled our torment into the other, where there was lust and ferocity in our encounters, like two matching killing machines, Robin has brought a cleanness along with her appeasing aura that fills the air I breath. Her loving actions annul my murderous nature, it’s a catharsis of the bloody violence running though my veins. Maybe I’m weak for feeling like this, maybe she is a liability, but I’m weaker without her. She stopped crying minutes ago, her fingertips play with the collar of my shirt, I feel her breath fanning over my throat and I can’t help but sigh in pure liberation. I’m trying really hard to keep my hands to myself because I want, not just to touch the skin of her shoulders, chest and back, but to trail kisses all over the expanse of the silky surface. I want to show her how much I adore her, how dear she is to me, and words are not enough to do it. My little bird, my rainbow girl with blue hair and purple nails, my arms hold her tighter, the voice telling me that I left a door open is finally gone. It’s the closure, this, her. Us.

‘Are you okay?’, I ask suddenly, my worry interrupting our silence. ‘Are you cold? Hungry? Do you want to go home?’, the word ‘home’ sounds endearing to my ears. More than anything, I’ve been wanting to take her home since she fell on my arms hours ago. She shakes her head, the apple smell escaping from her messy hair.

‘I’m fine’, she says, tightening her leg around my stomach. I gulp. ‘What about you?’, when I’m about to speak, a loud growl is the answer to her question. She chuckles and I snicker, slightly embarrassed. She sighs and straightens up into a sitting position. ‘Come on, we have to go home’, the word on her lips drives me crazy with happiness. ‘And you need some food’, she taps my leg to follow her to grab our bags. I not-so-willingly comply and stand up, walking towards the bench behind her. The music box is there, I didn’t notice where it ended up after our eager hug, but it’s shinning with the light of the lamppost, like moonlight, like her. 

‘Can we have shwarma?’, I ask shyly, like a child who’s looking forward to be spoiled, making her turn to look at me with tender eyes. 

‘Yes, of course’, she answers softly, her voice a caress on my arm. ‘I think I have ice-cream too’, she says, quirking her eyebrow in an almost teasing manner. She chuckles at the evident enthusiasm in the hum I let out.

I follow her through the aisles and we walk in silence out of the park. The night is very much present now; dark sky without stars, city lights and the colder breeze makes her snuggle on her jacket. Cold Robin is unacceptable. I take off my own jacket immediately, a rusted, almost forgotten gesture that startles both of us. Young, charming Bucky Barnes puts the piece of cloth, way too big for her, so much that she’s swimming on it, over her slender shoulders. He might have offered his arm as well, or take her hand at least, but I, this Bucky, her Bucky, vacillates, which is ridiculous given how passionate our previous encounter was. The killer and the gentleman became just a man who’s walking with a girl back to their home, that simple, but this new man is also afraid to take a step in the wrong direction, that’s why she’s leading the way, and I trust her to do it.

‘Thank you’, she says, snuggling even deeper in my jacket. ‘And thanks for catching me’, she adds, smiling appreciation at me. The pictures of that moment light up my memory; the fall, ‘ _Buongiorno, principessa_ ’, and her warmth. My little bird.

‘I liked your shoes’, I blurt out and I see her blushing. I’m getting frustrated with my brain’s inability to goddamn connect to the right wires of my mouth. My cheeks feel hot and my head is spinning a little, but I’m not sure if it’s for my own excitement about her reaction or the embarrassment of the sudden revelation.

‘Thank you’, her blushing fades away and it’s replaced by a grimace. ‘They’re unbearable to wear, but I liked them too’, she admits. I’m trying not to rant about how gorgeous she looked with them, not that I don’t like her Converse, how much I like her dress, the way she combed her hair and basically that I love every single thing about her tonight.

‘You looked pretty– pretty good’, I say in a careful tone, changing the last part to pretend that it is what I mean, as if ‘good’ makes justice to her beauty. Her face turns impossibly red, her eyes twinkling with something I can’t label. I clear my throat, looking down. We arrive at the bus stop, standing awkwardly side to side, waiting for the bus to take us home. It doesn’t take long, though, the vehicle parking in front of us in less than two minutes. Luckily for me. ‘Who’s that girl you work with?’, I ask to change the subject before my jeans fall to the floor.

‘That’s Liana, she started to work a few weeks ago’, she starts to explain as we climb on the bus, and I focus on her words, curious. ‘She’s on the evening shift, my boss hired her to help me, but her payment is very little actually and I still work all weekends, except the last one of the month’, she heads towards the back, where’s empty and we can talk without being disturbed. We sit down and she picks the place next to the window. ‘She’s funny, sometimes annoying, but she’s amazing’, there’s a hint of honest esteem in her voice, and I can tell Liana is someone she cares for, although she thinks it’s not always nice to be around her, like today. 

‘It looked like she was being a pain in the ass’, I say and she laughs at my comment. She frowns and then looks down, sighing as she remembers how frustrated she felt.

‘It was awful, I mean, she just couldn’t stop talking about…’, she trails and then chuckles, lifting her eyes to meet mine. Her shoulders are tensed and her lips are slightly pursed. ‘She thought you were handsome’, I hope I’m not imagining the tiny bit of resentment in her voice, like there’s any chance that she could be mad at her friend for thinking that way. The face of the blonde man irrupts into my mind out of the sudden and the same questions flow back; does she likes him? Why did she reject his offer? She has every right to go out with anybody, _date_ , have a boyfriend, but the real question is why exactly does it bother me that he’s the potential option for her? Liana thought I was handsome, then maybe, just maybe…

‘Do– do you think I’m handsome?’, my voice is shaky. I’m too nervous and uncomfortable for asking her this, it’s something that unsettles her as much as me. Her cheeks redden furiously, but she nods. _She nods_. She thinks I’m handsome and fucking Christ I can’t be happier or more relieved and proud at the same time. Yet I’m starting to feel like an idiot, because everything is so evident that our fake obliviousness is insulting. I might not be the charming fella from the forties, but I do feel something strong for her, something that hasn’t stop growing and that it’s harder to fight back every day. It’s agonizing and I’m frightened that she doesn’t feel the same way, then what do I feel? _You know_. I know, but does she? The endless questions attack me from all angles and I try to convince myself we’re not ready.

‘Do you think she’s… pretty?’, she mutters, almost too quiet that even my enhanced hearing struggles to decipher her words.

‘I think you are pretty’, I refuse to let her think that I’m interested in Liana. She smiles sadly, like she’s not believing what I’m saying. We look away from each other, the friction building up again. We remain silent until she stands up and I realize that we’re about to arrive to our building. She presses the button to call for our stop, the vehicle braking and the driver opening the doors for us to climb down. And there it is, finally, our home. The urgency to take her in and lock her inside my arms rushes back to my body. I want to be as close to her as in the park, even closer, make her completely part of me so we can both disappear. She’s walking in front of me, hurried steps leaving me far behind. Don’t walk away from me, please, Robin. _Robin_. ‘Robin…’, I call for her when she’s about to head upstairs. My hands are closed into fists, my blood has become adrenaline and my chest is inflated with all the words I cannot say. Screw it. She deserves to know, and I deserve to be told ‘no’, to be rejected. I lost her once, I left her, so what harm could it be done if I do it again? ‘What happened, we–’, I’m stammering. I can’t do this; I can’t be selfish with her, but I carry another truth that I will not risk to let be unspoken because if I don’t find the way to tell her how much she means to me without messing things up, I will kill myself if my admission makes her suffer. ‘I can’t stand you being scared of me, it’s– it’s killing me and to think that I can never change that it’s…’, I close my eyes tightly, tormented by this infernal emotions that steal the peace I just got back. ‘I care a lot about you, I want you to feel safe with me, but I don’t know– I can’t change… this’, I gesture my metal arm. ‘Me, I don’t–’ 

‘Bucky, Bucky no’, she interrupts me and practically runs in my direction. I’m miserable, and she’s the only one willing to take me under her wing, as she always has since that first moment she smiled at me. She cups my jaw and pulls me down to her, pressing our foreheads together. ‘I care about you too, but it’s– it’s more than that, and I’m afraid of it, not… you’, she leans forward so that our lips brush as hers move, like I did back in the park, and I find out that it’s indeed soothing. ‘Can you feel it too?’, she asks, as desperate as me. I simply nod, opening my eyes to let her know that I would never lie to her. ‘Do you trust me?’, what kind of question is that? Of course, yes, always, forever.

‘Yes’, but I understand that I have to say it out loud, so I do. ‘Do _you_ trust me?’, it’s me who’s inquiring her now. 

‘Yes’, there’s no faltering in her voice, and her eyes are glued to mine. She leans back a little and I wrap my arms around her waist, reluctant to let go of her completely. ‘Would you tell me what– what happened? Where did you go?’, she frowns, concerned. I sigh, looking down at the space separating us, so short and yet so painful. My arms tighten around her tiny figure.

‘Can we– can we talk it out inside?’, I half suggest, half plead. We’re standing in the middle of the lobby, anyone could run into us and break the bubble that seems to surround us every time we touch. She nods and kisses my cheek, turning towards the stairs. 

‘Yeah, we better wait until we’re… more alone’, we botch chuckle and she offers me her hand, that I take in the next non-existing seconds. 

And up we go, hand in hand, like two souls that can’t stand existing without the other’s feeling, the need to caress, to own, subdues the apprehension. Her asthma has improved, I can tell by the pace of her breathing as we walk. It is until we’re one floor under our flat that she starts to gasp, but it’s not as bad as before. I try to leverage her weight to help her, supporting her in order to prevent her from doing much of an effort. When we turn to step on the last set of stairs, the light settles upon her and I swear there’s star shinning bright on her chest. I don’t recognize it at first, but when my eyes focus on that particular spot, it makes sense instantly. The necklace, the one I gave to her two months ago and I was sure she wouldn’t even keep is blinding me with its powerful sparkling. How did I miss it? How could I forget about it? I can’t help but reach out for it, forcing Robin to stop in the middle of the stairs, frowning at me. The star, the snowflake that represents everything pure about her, the same crystal clear spirit, the quietness and beauty. I’m mesmerized by it, and her.

‘You didn’t…’, a smile is drawn on my lips and I sigh in disbelief. 

‘I will never take it off’, it’s more than promise, it’s a declaration, it won’t ever chance and she’s resolute to keep it that way. She makes me so happy with the smallest of actions. I’m about to add something when I hear a pair of unfamiliar breathings coming out of Robin’s apartment. My body tenses immediately, getting ready to fight, attack, kill, protect her at all cost. I trace a route of escape if we’re outnumbered, the railing could be helpful, I can give Robin one the the guns inside my backpack or maybe it’s better if she just run, but what if they already trapped us inside the building? Damn it. ‘What is it?’, she senses my stiffness and I put a finger on her mouth, signaling her to stay quiet. She nods and waits for me to move. I take the rifle out of my backpack and Robin gulps. Everything is happening so fast that I barely have time to think of what I’m doing, the only thing that is important is to keep her safe, alive. I position her behind me; if the crossfire starts, at least she won’t be a first-sight mark. I step closer to the door, careful to make no sound, and open it in one swift motion, raising the gun to aim for anyone within my shooting range.

Two persons are inside the apartment, a man and a woman. I examine them quickly, stopping enough to identify their physiognomies if they go after us. The man is tall, shorter than me though, he has black hair and piercing blue eyes, almost white. He’s smiling wickedly at us, standing next to the woman with his arms crossed over his chest. And her, the woman, is the most terrifying creature I’ve ever seen. A chill runs up my back at the sight of her, I’m not sure that she’s completely human, her skin is like marble, it seems stoned hard, her eyes are as white as the man and her hair just as dark. She’s emotionless, like a statue, empty. Their features are sharp, similar, the line between beauty and monstrosity is nowhere to be seen. None of them is startled by the gun I’m pointing towards them and I’m the one who is shocked, my breathing becomes a quiet wheezing, my throat is dry and my muscles are tangled around my bones. I have no idea what shit are we getting into, the frenzy takes over my mind and I have to use all my stenght not to pull the trigger. How did they get in here? How long have they been waiting? They’re weaponless, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous. I’m ready to either shoot or charge against them, looking around to spot any backup; they’re alone and their presence is more than unnerving. They’re a threat.

‘Hello, little robin’, the man greets with us an arrogant, disgusting tone. The prominence in the ‘r’ gives away a foreign accent. ‘Did you miss us? We did’, he says, trying to get a glimpse of Robin, who is still hiding behind me.

‘Who the hell are you?’, I demand, practically barking, pushing her backwards to shield her body from the intruders’ sight. 

‘Wow, you didn’t tell us you had such a specimen of a boyfriend’, he laughs and clasps his hands, beyond amused. He’s pretty much a fucking maniac. ‘He’s good-looking, don’t you think, sister?’, he laughs harder and looks down at the woman, then back to me. ‘Handsome’, he bites his bottom lip and something in my stomach twists. Her sister doesn’t even blink, she seems almost bored, ignoring her brother without effort. She turns her head to me, an invisible movement that makes me flinch, tightening my grip on the gun. Something about her reminds me of…

‘You’, she points at me with her index finger. Her nails are blood-red, long and sharp. ‘Get out’, her command makes me growl and I march towards her, ready to throw her out of the window.

‘Bucky, no’, Robin stops me, grabbing my arm firmly. ‘I’m going to be okay, they won’t hurt me’, I look at her in horror and perplexity because how the fuck am I supposed to let her alone with these psychopaths? No fucking way in hell. She tries to soothe me, placing a hand on my forearm, the touch is barely personal, even cold, and it somehow works. I really don’t understand how, but I’m terrified now. I don’t want anything happening to her, not even a scratch on her porcelain skin. If they dare to lay a single nail on her, they’re dead. I will rip them to shreds, end of story. ‘Shh, it’s okay’, I bet she can read my thoughts, because her voice is sweeter, calming.

‘Who– who are they?’, I ask. For some reason, I don’t want to hear the answer. She sighs and looks at them, despise and bitterness in her eyes.

‘They’re my siblings’, she says.

What the hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO EVERYONEEEEEE!!! I'm so, sorry that it took me so freacking long to update, but I honestly found it hard to sit down and write properly. I've been traveling a lot and life is simply not on my side, still I really hope you forgive me and like this chapter because I loved writing it :D I didn't know if I wanted to cry of joy or sadness, but I enjoyed it hell of a lot! So, huge revelation, although it's not really that surprising because I gave away millions of hints in past chapters, so I think it's was kind of obvious. Anyway, how do you think that Bucky would react given the information he has about Robin's relations? I would really like to know your thoughts ;)
> 
> Also, I wrote a one shot, is right [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8243780), it was inspired by TOP's "Heathens", you can check it out if you want :) I tried to do it differently from this, so I hope I managed to succeed :P THANKS A LOT FOR WAITING, leave comments, questions, you know I love to read you :D Have a beautiful night! :D


	17. Abraham's Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _"All happy families resemble one another, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."_
> 
>  
> 
> _Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina._  
> 

‘They’re my siblings’, I say, looking at the two statues in front of us. Bucky’s eyes crystalize, like a pair of moon stones freezing his expression. The gun on his hand is still pointing at them, it makes my heart almost beat out of my chest, but I gather as much strength as I can to give his arm a light squeeze, trying to ground his mind, to soothe his muscles, and maybe it will help me calm down as well. ‘I’m gonna be alright, I promise’, I struggle to pull on those words, my throat is arid and I wish I was better at lying to him. I have to make him see that he needs to go, they can’t know who he truly is, they can’t even suspect about him. They represent a threat to him, even more so than to me. ‘Go’, I beg to him. He’s looking at me in disbelief, his ever handsome features are mutilated by horror, like I was speaking a forbidden language, like I was breaking his heart for asking him to leave. I can practically hear his bones cracking as he moves backwards, now glaring daggers at the twins in a silent threat and I know that it would take them a careless move to trigger him. He would jump in action within seconds. I look down, unable to hide the pain because I still can’t believe that he’s back with me, because it hurts to see him go. He closes the door behind him and I hear his heavy steps going upstairs, to the rooftop.

‘Where did you get him?’, Liev’s voice rumbles in the room, tearing away Bucky’s image from my mind. Irina has a wrinkle on the side of her head that appears when she’s losing her patience. Liev, on the other hand, is grinning at me, the same wicked sparkle shining from the back of his eyes. ‘I’d like one of those’, I shrill runs up my spine. I noticed the way he looked at Bucky, the desire, the delight; he _wants_ him. What for? Not even God knows the answer.

‘Liev’, his name in his sister’s lips is enough to draw his attention back to whatever evil purpose they’re here for. I’ve always found it funny the way she scolds him, her whole relationship is fascinating and disturbing to see, but right now is simply intimidating. ‘Sit’, she orders me, gesturing the small table with her long, bony fingers. I obey without hesitation, wanting to end this as quickly as possible. Once I’m sitting where she demanded, both of them step closer perfectly systematized, like two shadows moving through the space in a mechanical dance. ‘We have some news that might interest you’, she says, placing a white folder on the table.

‘Can I tell her, please?’, Liev speaks before I take the folder. His request makes me frown, worried and confused at the same time. ‘Please, sister’, he pleads, the honest yearning to do this himself scares me to the guts. She indulges him, of course, rolling her eyes at the childish behavior of her younger brother. 

‘What’s this?’, I finally ask, looking down at the ignored folder, lifting it and opening to read the content. I have a bad feeling about this whole thing, but I’m not sure if it’s the ever-present uneasiness attached to their faces, the loom hovering above their heads, the constant scrutiny of the blue of their eyes, or if it’s the imminent outcome I’ve been secretly waiting since their last visit. None of that matters, I have no time to absorb the sharp jab on my ribs that I feel when I read the two words at the top of the paper: “Death Certificate”. _No…_

‘Alexander is dead’, Irina whispers and I fight back the urge to yell at her. I want to force her mouth shut, to stop her from speaking with such disdain. It’s a deafening sound, it splinters my bones, it pierces my skin. It’s poisonous. ‘The hospital called us two days ago to inform to us that his epilepsy had gotten worse and that he went into coma after his last episode’, she explains. Irina has this gift to make very clear only by her bored tone her despise towards people’s suffering and despair. They expose their weakness, and she thinks they don’t deserve to be pitied, just to be smashed. ‘A few hours later, he had a brain hemorrhage and died quite quickly’, she sighs and I’m about to throw the chair at her, aiming for that annoying, perfect nose of hers. Is she truly aware of what she’s saying? The damage, the powerless fury she’s causing with her indifference? ‘I bet he didn’t even suffer…’

‘How can you say it just like that?!’, I don’t hold back anymore, I physically and emotionally can’t. I stand up, slamming my fist on the table, the rage and the pain surpassing my fear. The blood has turn into lava burning my veins and the weight of the air in my lungs makes it hard to breathe. ‘He was _our_ brother!’, I desperately tell them, trying to kick some sense in them so they understand how serious it is, but both of them are unfazed, too familiar with violence and angst to be affected by them.

‘He killed _my_ mother’, Irina’s answer is strident. The impulse to cover my ears comes back. For one second, it seems that she’s able to be touched by a grief that should be mutual, but it has always been about her, what she lost, what I took away from her. I refuse to believe that this revelation is unintentional; there must be an ulterior motive, something like a punishment for what, according to them, is entirely my fault. They’re evil, and they’re smart about it. ‘And you let her die’, she hissed. Liev’s arrogant grin, Irina’s red lips and the memory of Alex’s gentle blue eyes bring me down. I crumble, kneeling on the floor with my arms holding together the splitting pieces of my soul. He’s dead. Alex is dead, and it takes me the blink of an eye to embrace that reality. The thought alone is unbearable to think, it hits me right in the chest, where I’m the most cracked. He died. He died and it was because of my own indifference, because I was a coward, a heartless bitch who abandoned the only person who was worth fighting for. Am I really that different from my siblings? I close my eyes, the answer explodes inside my head and the river flows wildly down my cheeks. ‘Stop crying’, she complains, but my crying is the only way I’ll be brave enough to confront her. ‘That’s all you’ve always done, you cry and whine like the stupid, weak brat that you are’, she spats and I look up to her. She’s pissed, and Liev hasn’t stop grinning. The fearsome twin and the cynical one stand above me, reducing me to scraps and nothingness. ‘It’s because of you that they’re dead, you know?’, I actually cover my ears this time, rocking back and forward, my breathing a set of deep, heavy gasps and sobs now. ‘Oh, does hearing the truth is too much? Am I hurting you? Consider it mercy’.

‘I did everything I could, I–’, I babble between sobs, but she’s having none of that. Her mercy is pure cruelness.

‘You shot your father’, the images of that day flash behind my eyes, drowning my head with blood, gunfire and tears. One shot and one knife, that’s all I catch a glimpse of because the faces are mixing with the demons and I can no longer recognize who’s hurting me and who’s saving me. ‘You killed him with your uselessness, and then you ran away’, her words echo in the room, the humid air and their breathings haze my vision. We stay quiet for countless seconds, maybe minutes, and my lungs start to burn for the lack of oxygen. They’re like a virus, spreading through the system, corroding the inside of one’s veins; they’re noxious. But I’m done letting them subdue me with mere cold stares and earsplitting whispers, they’re no one to me and yes, they’re stronger and smarter, but if I face them for once in my life, I might be able to challenge them, make them falter in their towering stances. And that’s what I do, I stand up, not minding how diminutive I’m compared to them, not just in height, but in power. I use the anger and the despair to feed the peek of bravery looming from every fiber of my muscles, I lift my chin in defiance, holding my eyes straight to theirs to crash against the ice. 

‘It’s not the first time I hear those words, but I won’t let you put it all on me either’, my voice is hoarse, but there’s a hint of severity on it, one that doesn’t pass unnoticed by them. I let the silence flood the space between us, the direction of my thoughts emboldens me and I lean a little forward. ‘Where were you when that happened? Both of you’, I’m somehow mimicking them, their intimidating nature mirroring in myself as they back down slightly, their faces mutilated by rage and repulsion. 

‘Don’t you dare–’, she warms, and it cuts right through my ears, but if I let the venom in her voice slip on my own tongue, the utter terror they induce on me will never disappear. 

‘Why was Alexander yelling at you, why did you left right before he broke down?’, I ask, my tongue stained with abhorrence. ‘What did he _saw_?’, and they snap. I hear a menacing growl come out of Liev’s chest, his body stiffening and his eyes narrowing while Irina flexes her legs, the signature attack position that resembles a graceful feline ready to kill its pray. I’m stepping over their fragile self control, it takes them so little to get riled up, and I’m probably getting myself killed for not stopping. No one dared to suggest what I’m suggesting now, it has been a taboo for many years, something that was supposed, but never said. Any mention on the subject leaded to a clever evasion, even though everyone could see how _close_ they were.

Contrary of what I’m expecting, Irina lets out a maniac chuckle that wash away the angry flush of my cheeks. It’s shrill, emotionless, it’s shrinking me down on my spot in front of them. I feel the courage abandon my arms and legs and the struggle to breathe comes back, harsher, hitting me right in the ribs. It won’t ever disappear, the fear, the pain, they’re bounded with every one of my cells and they’ve damaged my neurons, I’ll live and die with the infection and the dreadful memory of those whom I loved and lost. They tore the freedom off my hands, the peace of my wounded spirit and squeezed the life out of my body. They left me hanging from the edge, and maybe what I really must do is to let go and fall. 

‘He was fucked up’, she asserts. White expression, composed features, motionless muscles. And then she grins, the most horrifying thing she could do. Her crimson lipstick contrasts with her impeccable teeth, the blue of her eyes redden and she becomes the demon, an outrageous personalization of fire, blood and vileness that still hunts my dreams. Her grin grows wider. ‘Do you want to know why?’, she inquires. The fear takes over me again, because I was incapable to foresee the consequences of this argument, because there’s always the chance that they’ve been playing me this whole time, that I’m standing right where they want me, where I’m vulnerable, bared to them. Such realization weakens my knees. 

‘Irina’, Liev warns cautiously, moving closer to her. He wouldn’t dare to touch her, but his proximity eases her. The grin is replaced by a thin line, a bleeding, clean cut on her perfect face. I feel my nerves pouring out of my pores, the uncertainty is unbearable; I don’t know what her question is supposed to mean, or why Liev suddenly measures her behavior, but the anxiety is just too much. 

‘She must know what our big brother was up to, what he did in Kiev’, the mention of that place, the way it escapes from her lips, bitter and cold, is enough to bring down the remains of my bravery. The pressure on my skull, my head pounding, my heart racing, it’s all going to explode at any second; my skin is burning, but my fingertips are frozen, I’m fighting back the urge to let out a desperate cry because I can’t stand it anymore. The silence is thunderous, their voices are hammering against my ears and the walls cloister around us, thickening the air I breathe. I’m trapped. I’m about to demand them to speak once and for all; if this is the final straw, I want to hear it. I want to be killed by them one last time so I can be free from the ghosts and the demons. I yearn for a life, even if I have to die to get one.

‘He was a connection’, Liev interrupts before she says anything. A connection? What kind of connection? What is that supposed to mean? Confusion has to be plastered all over my face, because Liev rolls his eyes and his displeased demeanor returns to his charming features, then he chuckles, the tedious sound cuts through the air and clears the fog just a little. He’s about to answer a question as old as the grief of my heart, I know I should not believe him, but then again, what is left for me to believe in? If there’s a chance to explain why our lives turned the way they did, I’m willing to try and swallow down the fright. I want to know. ‘Drug trafficking is a dangerous job, he was involved in a situation that went wrong and he ended up screwed’, he says as if it was obvious, huffing and turning to look down at his sister, whose expression has become bored. It’s like they have a switch that turns on and off the minimal amount of emotions they’re capable of experience. It’s making me nauseous, I’m shocked, because it doesn’t matter how much I want to call him liar, if I choose to deny him, I’ll let myself drift into the vagueness, lost into the eternal oblivion. There are more questions than answers, the secret that has been exposed enlightens a small part of my bewilderment, this means that I’d been lied to my entire life, that they knew, everyone knew except for me, and it makes me sad to realize he’s never been who I thought he was, but it also means that this is not entirely my fault: they could have saved him too, because if they knew, they could have done something to drag him out of that life. We let him kill our mother, we let him die. All of us. ‘Anything else?’, he quirks his eyebrow, exasperated. It simply doesn’t click, this shouldn’t feel like a betrayal, this wrong and tainted. A spark of lucidity breaks into my head and I blink a couple of times to focus on them again, simultaneously skeptical and upset.

‘That doesn’t make sense, our parents would never–’, I begin, but Irina is fuming now and she takes a step backwards, a movement that manages to keep imposing her graceful, yet taut body to me. 

‘You don’t make sense’, she spats and the aversion is loud in her words. We’re looking right into each others eyes, the weariness in mine reflects on the blue wrath of hers. Liev snickers beside her. Their advantage on this sick game is tiring me. I’m suddenly exhausted, I don’t want to hear them anymore. I want them to leave me alone; if she’s so willing to forget about me, I’m as much as desperate to forget about them and everything else too. ‘Your mere existence never made sense to me, and in all honestly, it would give me some peace of mind if I ignore that we’re breathing the same air in this world’, the gunshots and jabs are coming out of her mouth without mercy. Why does it hurt this much? I shouldn’t be affected by her brutal confession, I should be made of ice and poison. Now I understand why they always said I was weak and pathetic, crying and whining; I had to be like them. Strong, impenetrable, empty. ‘Alexander was the only remainder left of our relativeness and now that he’s finally dead, I can forget about you too’, they move away from me towards the door and I look down, drowning into the pain and loneliness. 

‘Family above all’, I recall that old saying, a hostile tone in my voice and a dark chuckle echoing in the room. Irina huffs quietly. 

‘You’ve never fitted in this family, you’re a waste of our blood and a shame of our name’, she nods at Liev to open the door so she can walk out. ‘You are nothing’, she turns and gives me one last hateful glare, whispering almost to herself. ‘Goodbye, Gabrielle’, that name vibrates on the fragile cords of my sanity, piercing my ears before her taciturn face disappears on the other side of the door. _Gabrielle_. An insult that carries agony and broken bones. Liev laughs shamelessly now that her sister is gone. I close my eyes for a brief moment, exhausted and defeated, and I hear his steps follow Irina out of my apartment. The demon is gone, but the flashbacks are clouding my mind, they’re making me dizzy and disorient me in my own space.

‘A robin redbreast in a cage puts all heaven in a rage’, he croons. They seem to synchronize their assaulting from every angle. That quote has its own painful weight, it’s an old wicked joke. I open my eyes to see him standing under the threshold, one had lingering on the doorknob as he closes the door behind him.

‘Liev’, my call stops him on his tracks, forcing him to reluctantly turn to me. He’s always been the most tolerate twin, he was a little more careful with his remarks and comments, but there was a twisted purpose behind his faked consideration. He tormented me and deceived me, made me believe I could lay onto him when our older brother was gone, just to laugh at my face when I found out that he was fooling me, calling me naïve and stupid for thinking he could possibly feel anything for me, even mere sympathy or fraternal support. ‘After all these years, how did you find me?’, I want him to pity me, show the slightest of clemency because I have nothing else to lose. 

‘You never learned how to hide, little robin’, his lips are turned upwards into that evil grin of his. He’s mocking me, using the reference that he knows will enlarge the crack on my chest to accentuate the perfect departure. Remembering hurts, so he forces me to remember. I don’t know if I’m ever going to see them again, for what Irina said, they’re not looking forward to it, but some place in the back of my mind, the horrifying self admission that I’ll see them at least once before I die is enough to steal the peace from the rest of my life. As soon as he leaves for good, their putrid smell lingering and the breath of death infesting my nostrils, the moment I’m completely alone, I let the world crumble around me.

I don’t hear my own screams, the miserable cries and irrational shouts, the only things that feel real are the burning on my throat and the fire my lungs are exhaling. My hands and feet punch and kick everything on their way, chairs and boxes; my legs and arms collide against the walls, the table and the doors. Everything is chaos and ruin, all the pillars of my life are fractured, I don’t recognize my surroundings anymore, I’m merely staggering in an unknown position until I fall on my knees. I hear the distant shattering of glass, my hands are suddenly sticky and cold and my knees are punctured by millions of needles. I slam my fists against the floor, the sharp sting passes by unnoticed and I shout again as I throw whatever within reach at the air. The tears mix with the blood, the borders of agony invade enervation’s territory and I’m not sure why am I crying, why am I so furious and so wrecked. My guilt. Alexander. Irina. My mother. All of it and none of them at the same time. It’s a paradox of pain. I keep kicking and punching, twisting my body at impossible angles, trying to find a place where my sinews aren’t aching and my muscles stop from ripping apart from my bones. I dig my nails into the flesh of my face, I draw red, fresh lines on my cheeks, I scratch my arms and neck, it burns and hurts so much that they’re even pleasing. I close my eyes as I punish myself for the damage I’ve caused to those who needed me the most, those whom I couldn’t save and abandoned. And someone holds my wrists before I dig any further. 

‘Robin’, a strangled voice whispers my name. It’s familiar, almost comforting. I fight back their hold, but they’re tough and determined to make me stop from hurting myself. Don’t you get it? I need to feel the pain, I need it. I need to die. I yelp and slam my head against the floor, one, two, three times in increasing harshness and hands now hold my shoulders, forcing me to straighten up. ‘Please, don’t’, the voice supplicates and then I’m being lifted, cradled and carried away. My body is settled down on a cold and thick surface, I cling to the strong arms when they try to break away, their warmth conceals my suffering inside their protection; I know that warmth. It’s Bucky, it has to be him because no one else feels like this. Bucky’s here. Bucky. My Bucky. ‘Robin, let me just– I’m gonna–’, he stutters in a cautions, concerned tone. I shake my head. I don’t want him to go. I whimper, the only way I can tell him I don’t want him to leave me alone. ‘I need to clean your wounds’. I shake my head again. ‘Please…’, my heart breaks a little. I have to let go of him so he can help me, but such though it’s unbearable. I need him to stay. I feel him move awkwardly and I protest, unable to trust his movements. I’m terrified that he’ll disappear. ‘Open your eyes, I’m not leaving, I promise’, he assures, keeping one arm secured around me while the other reaches for something on this left. I dare to open my eyes, facing his troubled expression and the opaque blue walls of the bathroom. The sight of him is beyond consoling; he’s real and he’s here, with me and me only. He’s holding a small, white bottle and cotton on his metal hand. I frown and his expression changes; he’s looking at me like that day I dislocated my ankle, like a professional, a doctor doing his job. He has to be cold enough and some part of me acknowledges his effort, but I’m too dazed to cooperate properly. ‘Does any particular spot hurt?’, he squeezes my shoulder gently, stealing a bit of my attention. My head sort of moves, indicating I’m not sure, I don’t care. He takes the hint and starts to examine my whole body. Besides the evident cuts on my knees, cheeks and arms, his free hand travels down my legs to make sure there are no more injuries, then up to my thighs, hips, waist and chest. Nothing. Fingers, wrists, forearms and collarbones. Nothing. ‘Here?’, he touches my ribs. I shake my head weakly. ‘What about here?’, he taps the side of my head. Nothing, either. He sighs in relief and opens the white bottle. I recognize the alcohol and actually flinch in anticipation when he wets the cotton with it. He gives me an apologetic look before cleaning ever so softly my injuries. I wince at the sting and the smell of the liquid, I have to bit my bottom lip to prevent more tears from falling. It seems he’s done this plenty of times; wholeheartedly focused, delicate hands grazing over my skin, the precise amount of pressure and the skilled manner to stop the blood from pouring out of the cuts. I see him frown through the watery vail blurring my vision and my chest lets out a spontaneous whimper. He shushes me, cupping my face and lifting my chin to look at him. ‘Alright, listen to me: I’m gonna look for something to cover you up and–’, I don’t give him the chance to finish, already shaking my head and gasping.

‘B– Bucky, don’t–’, my fingers grasp his shirt with way too much force, trembling violently my knuckles turning white. 

‘I’ll be right back, I promise’, he leans and kisses my forehead, removing my iron grip with ease, yet firmly, and standing up to head outside the bathroom. The anguish distortions any rational thought and I break down. 

‘Bucky’, my whole body shivers at the lost of his contact. My nails begin to scratch my arms again like a reflex, the panic and the need to hurt myself hits me stronger. ‘Bucky!’, I call for him. He doesn’t answer and I’m afraid he never will. ‘BUCKY’, no yell nor plea will bring him back to me. I feel completely alone; I’m aching everywhere. Endless seconds seem brief eternities. I wait and cry to fill the hollow of my longing. Bucky left. He left me again. The tears burn their path down my cheeks, I sob and beg without restraint. I’m panting by the time he walks in the small room and quickly slides a hoodie over my exposed body. He scoops me up and looks at me sweetly.

‘I need you to close your eyes, can you do that for me?’, I hide my face in the crook of his neck and nod. He starts to walk out of the bathroom, the shivers and the gasps quiet down at the sound of his voice immediately. ‘I’ll take you to your–’, I snap my head up, alarmed.

‘I don’t want to go there’, I blurt out, my voice muffled by the sharp corner of his jaw. The familiar, stubbled skin diming my apprehension just a little.

‘We’ll go to my apartment, is that okay? We can go wherever you want, just close your eyes’, he promises and I comply, letting him guide me through the shattered trail of chaos. All lights are gone along with the smell of memories and pain, I hear doors being opened, or closed, I’m not sure, and then I’m laying on a lenient surface that contrasts with the harshness of the previous ones. His bed. My Bucky’s bed. He positions himself behind me, his chest and arms shielding me from the world, his hands and legs intertwined with mine. His lips set petal kisses over my shoulder blades and nape, the fanning of his breath transfers some of the peace eradiating from his body. ‘ _Vernis’ komn ne_ ’, the echo of those words bury my heart in the depths of my chest. ‘ _Vernis…_ ’, he pleads.

I don’t know for how long he repeats that prayer, but it lulls the demons and the ghosts just enough to let me breathe and stop me from crying. I wonder if he must have felt this way every time I implored him to come back to me. Did he felt this torn? Like two ropes tugging at your arms in opposite directions. Did he saw this dark? Like night itself had jaded his eyes. Did he call for names in his dreams and no one ever answered? Like shouting at the void of a jar. Did he lose everything he was? Yes, he did. And more than that. I know it. The dreams I never allowed to follow me make their way to my head and conquer my mind with images I turned away from for years. They’ve found me. She’s found me. A little black-haired girl appears in front of me, the fragile creature takes my hand and leads me into the darkness of that place where I can’t go back to, where I won’t ever belong again. 

‘ _Come on now, malinovka, you’re staying behind! Run, faster!_ ’, she’s playing with a young, good-looking man. His eyes are blue like the the brightest day of spring and his hair is as dark as hers, he’s tall and strong and he looks at her with tenderness. They’re in a garden, smiling and laughing, joyful and careless. They’re happy. ‘ _I’m coming, I’m coming!_ ’, her short, clumsy legs chase the bigger figure. She’s wearing a light pink dress, barefoot, and there are flowers in her hair. ‘ _Run!_ ’, he encourages and she giggles, but slows down when the air gets thicker and impossible to breathe. Her legs give up and she falls; he’s not there to catch her. The man stops when he hears the heavy gasps at his back. ‘ _Malinovka?_ ’, he calls after her. No one answers. ‘ _ROBIN!_ ’, he screams her name, horror in his beautiful eyes, and runs towards her already limp body laying on the grass. Hours later, she’s playing with her tea set in the confidence of her room, a pout and dried tears decorating her dolly face. The young man enters and lays next to her. ‘ _I’m so sorry, malinovka, I didn’t want you to get sick_ ’, his voice is soft, his eyebrows are knitted in deep worry. ‘ _Don’t be mad at me, I hate it_ ’, the little girl looks at him. Brown, big eyes can tell how much she loves him, that there’s nothing that could possibly make her hate him. She’s so innocent. ‘ _I’m not mad, I’m sad ‘cause I wanna play with you and I can’t because I’m weak_ ’, she explains, half angry at herself, and half angry at the world. Tears threat to break her calmness and he places a reassuring arm around her tiny figure. ‘You’re not weak’, he’s said that before, but she never believes him. Not entirely. ‘ _Irina says I’m weak because I can’t breathe normal_ ’, her older sister, the strong and beautiful girl who inspires fear and envy at the same time, points out the sick condition of her baby sister any chance she gets. When she cries, when she trips or calls for her mother, she’s always there to scold her. ‘ _We’re only stronger because we have to take care of you, my pretty, little robin_ ’, he kisses her chubby cheek, but the gesture infuriates her. ‘ _I don’t want to be little, I want to be like you!_ ’, she exclaims, tears already falling. This only proves her sister right. She’s weak. ‘ _No, you’re too special to be like any of us_ ’, he assures and baths her face with kisses until she giggles. They laugh like nothing happened, like they can get back their happiness by a fraternal gesture of affection. Their life is that simple. ‘ _Now, come on, I brought you ham and cheese_ ’, he announces, taking out a sandwich enveloped with a napkin. She loves when he steals food for her.

The next picture burns the last one and paints a sad scenario. The little girl is watching him packing his clothes on a big case, her legs are bowed and her eyes are imploring him to stop. ‘ _Can I go with you?_ ’, she asks, still hopeful. ‘ _You can’t, malinovka, I’ve told you before_ ’, his voice is firm, but the softness lingers on his tongue. He cares about her so much, and he hates to hurt her this way. ‘ _But why do you have to go? Irina and Liev can go instead of you_ ’, she offers, the last attempt to keep him by her side. She’s going to miss him so much, and she hates to see him leave. ‘ _Our family needs my help, not theirs_ ’, doesn’t she see that this is hard for him too? That he doesn’t want to do this? She’s too young to understand. He sighs and kneels before her, opening his arms to her. ‘ _Come on, give me a big hug_ ’, she doesn’t think twice and hurries into his embrace. If they only knew this is the last time they’re be able to hold each other just the way they are, clean and candid. ‘ _Promise me that you’ll have a lot of fun for me here, you’ll play and sing and dance with dad like you always do, okay?_ ’, she’s crying, but she nods. ‘ _Okay_ ’, she babbles and he smiles. Maybe she’s lying to him, but that lie will be the light on a future he didn’t choose and the raw memory of better times. ‘ _I love you, Alex_ ’, to hear those words coming out of her mouth is so pure that they pierce his ears, they’re true and he doesn’t deserve them. ‘ _I love you more_ ’.

She does misses him. It’s been too long and he hasn’t come back yet, she wonders if she’ll ever see him again. There are no letters, messages, something that tells her he remembers her. She has bad dreams and cries for her mom, her dad and her brother. ‘ _Bayu-bayushki-bayu nye lozhisya na krayu. Pridyot serenkiy volchok I ukhvatit za bochok. On ukhvatit za bochok I potashchit vo lesok, pod rakitovyi kustok_ ’, her mom sings to her and sleeps by her side because she’s afraid of the dark and the nightmares. Her sister despises her behavior and her other brother mocks her. ‘ _A robin redbreast in a cage puts all heaven in a rage_ ’. Then, they ignore her, they let her grow up alone, afraid of a world that keeps yelling at her to stop from crying. Her father tries to make her smile again, but not even the songs and the dances bring some happiness. The tea set is forgotten and replaced with sweat and pain, the laughter is forbidden and she loses her brightness in the abyss of a new life. 

‘ _Come, dear, say hi to your grandfather_ ’, her mother incites the little girl. They left her home behind, they have followed her brother into the gloom. She only knows they’re in her mom’s old house, her father isn’t there to comfort her and her siblings look thrilled to be there. Nothing is familiar, nothing is warmth. It’s empty. She’s hiding from the huge figure in front of her, an old man with blue eyes she doesn’t share, it’s too cold in the room and the dread that inspires his expression reminds her of the demons in her nightmares. The grandfathers she had seen in the movies were different from this one and she feels intimidated rather than contented to finally meet such significant member of her family. She even cringes when he speaks. ‘ _She must be the youngest_ ’, he acknowledges and a twist in the corner of his mouth makes her shiver. He smiles like the twins. ‘ _What’s her name?_ ’, his question is more like a demand, and he speaks funny, she thinks. ‘ _Robin, Robin Gabrielle_ ’, her mother answers. She never liked her full name, and him knowing it is an intrusion to her private discomfort. ‘ _Ne stesnyaysya, shag blizhe_ ’, the little girl frowns, both confused and worried that she doesn’t understand what he’s saying, like she’s going to be punished for it. ‘ _She doesn’t speak Russian_ ’, the body of the woman protecting her tenses. The old man looks at her with a disgusted face, like she was a bug, an abomination. ‘ _She’s too small_ ’, he notes, bored, and walks away with strident steps. The little girl swallows the urge to cry at his rejection. 

She’s miserable. Everything is suffocating her. She’s not allowed to play outside or speak English, she’s confined to her room and the library, her life is gray, white and black. She has no friends and she doesn’t go to school. She isn’t normal. She doesn’t even know what normal is. It’s been a year since her family brought her to this place she hates more every day. Strange people teaching her how to speak fluent Russian and five more languages replace the games with her father while a lonely meal substitutes the food her mother used to cook with love. She doesn’t see them anymore, from time to time, they check on her, kiss her forehead and leave her to her duties. Two years later, few things have change; Irina is in London, Liev moved to Germany and her parents are temporarily in Moscow. Her grandfather is satisfied with her improvement, he even seems more accessible towards her and the disgust and scorn have become approving nods. One day, when her parents come back, fatigued and lifeless, someone else appears at the threshold of the door. He’s pale and taciturn, his movements are precise, calculated and monotone, inertia commanding his body; he’s no longer the charming, young man she remembers from her childhood, and it pains her. He too is a stranger now. ‘ _Alex?_ ’, she inquires from the top of the stairs. He lifts his head, frowning when his eyes set upon her, recognizing her, trying to remember who she is. ‘Moya malinovka’, he sighs in disbelief and she runs to meet him. She cries of joy, he doesn’t, he holds her tightly and cups her rounded face when they part away. ‘ _God, you’re growing to be more beautiful every day_ ’, there’s no laugh or smile, but she sees a glimpse of affection in the blue looking back at her. That’s the moment she lost him forever and she never knew.

He says goodbye three days later with a wave of his hand. No hugs, no promises. What has happened to him? Where is her brother? She wishes someone could answer. Irina comes back instead and her grandfather states that physical solidification musts match her intellectual abilities, so he compels her to take martial arts and skate-figure lessons. ‘ _Balet dlya rossiyan_ ’, he said to her, introducing her to her instructor in both activities, another old man with scary face. ‘ _Vy uznayete to, chto podkhodit vam luchshe_ ’, he dismisses her and she examines the skating equipment while she walks towards the room that has been fixed specially for her. There’s a bit of excitement, even but fear that she won’t please him. The fighting doesn’t go as planned, she’s too clumsy, her reflexes are slow and not even Irina’s intervention, her innate skills or challenging exertion, offers any development in her work. Grandfather, who is formally addressed to as “sir”, and sourly called Dmitri in her mind, is disappointed and ashamed. This waste of his investment can’t pass unnoticed; he decides to take action on the matter himself, which only means he’ll discipline her for her incompetence. He removes the useless instructor and spends his precious time in the early morning with her at the training room; he’s determined to prove that he can force her to be the perfect skater, graceful and fierce. She practices day and night, she’s getting stronger and her muscles getting firmer. She loves it, the grace, the speed, but it’s killing her, her body aches and deteriorates. She’s human, and her pain is not important. ‘ _Vy khorosho spravilis', dorogoy_ ’, he praises when she’s about to faint; she can’t stop. She mustn’t. Bathed in sweat, her legs spin around with flawless meticulousness, lungs burning are quietened by the classic music playing from the background. She nods and keeps moving, keeps fading. ‘ _No etogo bylo nedostatochno_ ’, there’s a particular movement she can’t manage. It’s not difficult, but she’s exhausted. Dmitri is having none of that. ‘ _Yeshche raz_ ’, he demands. She jumps and falls on her knees. ‘ _Yeshche raz_ ’, irritation is clear in his voice. She spins around again. Fiercer, firmer; it’s not enough. ‘ _YESHCHE RAZ!_ ’, he yells and cracking bones are her reward. She achieves what he wanted, her life for his approval, her tears for his smile. A content hum confirms that she did it. ‘ _Dostatochno_ ’, she can finally break now.

The little black-haired girl has disappeared, the little bird, the robin is gone and she has grown into a mechanical doll walking through the halls of the cold house. She has forgotten who she was before this place, how her brother looks like, what it feels to be loved and protected by her parents. She’s fourteen and she’s preparing for an important occasion, her mother is helping her to put on a dress she can’t breathe in. They’ve been silent, but for one second, she refuses to pretend that she’s blind. ‘ _Mom, when are we seeing Alex?_ ’, she senses the waters, and her sudden question seems to drag a bit of attention from the radiant woman behind her fixing her hair. ‘ _Your grandfather will be upset if you keep speaking English, Robin_ ’, she scolds, but answers in the same language. A bit of indulgence. ‘ _But he’s not here, he can’t listen_ ’, the teasing retort, the teenage rebellion in her tone upsets her mother. ‘ _He’s always listening_ ’, that’s the last thing she says before walking out of the bedroom. Did her mother disappear too?

Everything has its limit, and the coldness has taken its toll on the mechanical doll; her life is frozen, her future is dark and her family is gone. ‘ _I’m tired of this place! We don’t belong in here, mom! I want to go home!_ ’, she yells and kicks. Her tantrum doesn’t affect the calm expression of her mother and that exasperates her. She can’t bare the detached behavior of someone who used to lull her nightmares and kiss her forehead lovingly. ‘ _Family is above all, Robin. Your grandfather needed Alex, your dad and me to do the job that no one else could, that’s why we’re here_ ’, that explanation has been given so many times that is nothing but trite. It’s vague, lacking sense. ‘ _What kind of need does he want from you?_ ’, she challenges, lifting her chin and clenching her jaw. The woman sighs, her lips tremble and her hands close into delicate fists. ‘ _The one that can only be provided by family_ ’, there was a twinge of defeat in her words. The mechanical doll didn’t know the sacrifice that was made in the name of family, and she won’t ever know.

‘ _Let go of me! You’re hurting me!_ ’, she saw something she wasn’t allowed to. Her curiosity led her to peek into the half-opened door of Irina’s room and Liev noticed her presence before she could run away from the confusing scene. He grasped her by the wrist and shoved her against the nearest wall. ‘ _You’re lucky that it was me and not Irina_ ’, his remark is threatening, yet amused. He enjoys to scare her this way, implying that he can always hurt her more if he wanted just to laugh at the terror in her eyes. Irina is definitely worse than him in many ways, but his clever evilness makes him more dangerous in others. They balance each other, they are the perfect match. ' _You have to learn how to hide, little robin_ ’, he warns playfully, the old nickname hurts, even more than the poison on his tongue.

After nine years, they go back home. All of them. The doll is no longer mechanical, she’s more like herself again and the dances, the music and the joy fill the house she longed for. Alex is broken, but she’s helping him to heal the wounds she can’t see. He doesn’t smile anymore. Even though none of them is the same, their broken family is starting to heal too. She’s listening to The Doors, singing along, brushing her hair and looking forward to a welcome home party. Her paternal grandmother is attending the event and nothing can be better… until she hears a gunshot downstairs. What happens next is blurry, repressed by her mind, and the black-haired girl runs to face a picture that will raze the peace and happiness from the rest of her life. ‘ _Mum? Dad?_ ’, she calls after her parents. ‘ _Alex?_ ’, she calls after her brother. No one answers. Then there’s just blood, gunfire and tears. ‘ _Robin…_ ’, the whisper of her name is the last thing I hear before the second bullet is fired.

‘Robin’, I’m being shaken by gentle hands. I squirm, kick and punch, unable to tolerate any kind of contact. ‘Wake up’. But it’s Bucky. His voice tries to bring me back to him. Wake up, please’, I snap my eyes open and I blink a few times to adjust to the dim light of the room, his room. He’s studying my face with an anxious expression, his hands, now familiar and comforting, hold down my shoulders with a firm, but careful pressure. My poor attempts to breathe come out into pants and shivers; I take in the present, this twisted reality, but it slips from my fingers easily. I’m not strong enough to hold on my own life. 

‘I can’t– I can’t–’, the lack of oxygen prevents me from telling him that I can’t breathe. There’s no need, because he recognizes the symptoms and stands up to hurry out of the apartment, running back with my inhaler on his hand within seconds. He helps me to sit up and put it on my mouth to inhale the medicine. It acts slowly given how much I struggled during the attack. 

‘Deep breaths, Robin’, he mumbles, rubbing my arms and waiting patiently for my breathing to normalize. Once he’s made sure that I’m not going to faint, he pulls me down on the mattress again, laying my body on top of his. My fingers grasp his shirt and my nails scratch his skin through the fabric. He knows I need to ground my body and mind and also verify that we’re as real as I thought before he left. ‘Feel me breathe’, I obliged, mimicking the raise and fall of his taut chest under me. His hands run up and down my back soothingly, but the heavy sobs turn down both of our efforts. I keep crying although I’m drained, the immense wave of emotions spreads from my head to toes, from brain to heart, and he lets me spend my pain to relieve the internal bleeding, yet it’s impossible for him to stand it. ‘What can I do? Tell me, please, I hate to see you crying’, he implores, frantic, and that only makes me cry harder.

Unaware of the time it takes my crying and gasping to wear out, the breakdown yields to the shock. There are no tears left to spill, the blood has dried and the pain has condensed in my chest, forming a tight knot on my throat and solidifying my stomach. I hear nothing, my senses have been neutralized and not even Bucky’s warmth revives the sensibility and relief of its safety. Not even Bucky can change the fact that Alex is dead. He has finally met the same fate of our parents, in the same way; deprived from love and peace. Now, to say that I’m alone in this world will be entirely true. Irina will forget about my existence and so will Liev. It’s like I died too and our faces were erased from their memories; it’s like our family never existed. Did my brother think of us before he died? Tied up to a bed, screaming at an empty room, monitors and cables around him. Did he remember them? Flashes of the old house in Boston, of our summer days running in the back yard and our parents laughing along with us. Did he know how much I loved him? Against it all, how much I did. Did he forgive me? I’m too numb to even pay attention to an imaginary answer. My eyelids refuse to meet and let me rest, my lungs have been reduced to ashes; I’m about to evaporate when I hear him murmur against my forehead.

‘ _Vernis…_ ’, I want to tell him that I’m right here, but I’d be lying, and he knows, that’s why he’s trying secure my place to his side. ‘ _Vernis’ komn ne _’, somehow, him speaking Russian seem to kick into my skull better than English. The words don’t scrape through my ears and I assimilate them easier. I lift my head to look him in the eye, hoping I can make him know that the mess inside my head is clearing up enough to let him in. He moves slowly adjusting his body to fill the short space between us. The tips of our noses are brushing, our eyes are locked, his arms remain snaked around me and our legs are tangled. We’re a creeper of solace. Him the only piece of reality I’m allowed to keep.__

‘Alex is dead’, I say hoarsely and his hold tightens. I pause, gathering the courage to bare myself to him as he did that night before the coldest winter of our lives. There won’t be secrets or lies anymore, just the clarity of the other’s sins. I’m ready to show him the side of my face I’ve been hiding from him and the rest of the world. ‘My brother is dead’, as if it explains everything I’m not saying, he kisses my nose in a consoling gesture, like he understands my lost and shares my grief.

‘How?’, the compassion in his tone is reassuring, silently inciting me to continue. I take a deep breath, hesitant, but mostly relieved for being brave to step closer to that rusted door that has been closed for so long.

‘He had been hospitalized in Germany for the last six years. He had an episode two days ago and he– he died’, I explain and the insecurity is clear in my voice. I know he’s here and he’s offering me his entire being as a balm; I wish it was enough. I take my time to prepare myself to say out loud what no one has heard me confess. There never was a priest to forgive my wrongs in the name of a God that had no mercy, there was no penance nor atonement. There was no place to look for hope. ‘He was there because–’, but the truth is too violent and the pain bursts out of my chest, the knot makes me choke in tears and my stomach gets its loose. ‘Because he– oh, God, he killed my mom’, I can hear the gunshot in the room, earsplitting and real. ‘I should’ve– should’ve stopped him, do something but I– I couldn’t and they died’, Bucky’s hands find my head and they cup my face, drawing circles on my bruised cheeks. ‘They’re all dead because of me’, he tenses. My guilt keeps growing until I’m dressed with the lost of my parents, the hate of my siblings and the loss of my brother. But Bucky deserves to see the red painting my hands. ‘I was getting dressed when I heard the first gunshot. I ran downstairs, but was so quiet that I thought I had imagined everything until I stepped closer to the library and heard voices. I opened the door and– and she was–’, my mother was dead before I could attempt to save her. She was lying on the floor in the middle of a puddle of her own blood. The sight of her death paralyzed me, even now, it tears apart my limbs. ‘My dad was trying to calm Alex down, but when he broke free and ran towards me and I– I picked up the gun next to mom and I– I closed my eyes, I– ’, the missing parts of this truth come out of my mouth in a shapeless frenzy. ‘I pulled the trigger, and when I opened my eyes, my dad was– I had–‘, another jab to the ribs leaves me breathless. Irina and Liev have abused of my actions, they forced me to hear what I’d done, denying me the strength to carry the burden with dignity. ‘Alex was running towards me and he–’, I leaning into his touch. His skin is boiling, or maybe mine is freezing. ‘He did this’, I grab his flesh hand and guide it under the hoodie, up to the scar between my shoulder blades. He shudders. The river pouring from my eyes has stopped, _he knows_ , he’s able to identify our similarity, that we have both internal and physical scars and I can’t help but think that it’s only fair. ‘I passed out and woke up in a hospital few days later’. I’m wrecked and exposed. I’m waiting for him to tell me what I’ve wanted someone to say for six years, but after so much time of running away, of denial, the generosity has expired.

‘There’s nothing else you could have done, you were scared and–’

‘You don’t understand’, I cut him off. I’m not worth the pity. Irina would laugh at my late realization and stupidity, I would now. ‘I killed my father and tried to kill my brother. It wasn’t just self defense, I wanted to see him dead and then I ran away as far as I could’, the severity of my voice surprises both of us. ‘I left him to die in that hospital, completely alone, I wanted to punish him for what he did, because I can’t– I just can’t forgive him and I don’t– I don’t want to’. If I forgive, if I forget, then they’ll be forgotten too, so may the doors of heaven forbid my entrance for my place is in hell.

We wander through the silence. Bucky’s breathing is agitated, mine is hardly perceptible and our heartbeats indicate us that we’re still alive. He leans forward until his mouth provides the closeness that I yearn for with every beat of my heart.

‘Remember what you said when I told you about me?’, his lips flutter against my trembling ones. I don’t care if it’s a bizarre need, it’s ours to soothe the fear, the anger and the despair. It’s the anesthetic no doctor has ever given us. Although I don’t answer, he continues. ‘Maybe it wasn’t my fault, but that doesn’t change the fact that I killed all those people. I did it, and I won’t ever change that, no matter what I do’, he’s right. Nothing can be changed, only heard and replayed. He cups my face again and moves away a few millimeters. ‘We have to live with that, Robin, with the guilt, but we don’t have to do it alone’, he trails kisses from my chin down my collarbone and their warmth melts the ice covering my skin. ‘ _Ya zdes’, ya s toboy_ ’, he cooes and the tension set our souls free.

That’s it. It’s over, for now. I turn around and let him wrap me with his body, forming a cocoon around me, an impenetrable, yet soft shield that protects us from this world that has done enough to us. We don’t need them. It’s us what we have and what we’ll keep. We belong here. We’re real. I’m drifting into slumber, he’s probably wide awake, but I’m beyond fatigued and my eyes betray my will to share the quietness of the night with him. I close my eyes at the same time that his voice mixed with someone else’s loved and long lost rebounds in the walls of my unconsciousness.

_Pomolchi, malinovka._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freaking finally!!!!!! You have no idea how sorry I am for taking like a hundred years to update. In mi defense, school's been a huge bitch to me this particular month, besides, I've been traveling often because of work and this chapter just kept giving me a pain in the ass. It was really hard to write it and even had to rewrite few parts several times. But here it is, for you my loving and loyal readers! I wanted to post it before finals, and I did it :D I know there's gonna be questions, so feel free to ask me! I left a lot of things unclear, but it was totally on purpose, and maybe I won't be able to answer everything because I really don't want to spoil you, but I'll try my best, I promise.
> 
> This is a very important chapter for the whole story, this is where Bucky and Robin bond the strongest. This will be their first step into the development of their relationship and I'm excited to show you how it's gonna be :) I honestly hope that you like it :) Also, while I was trying to win back some inspiration, I did some edits and a kinda soundtrack for the series. [Here is a post of pics from Robin and her family](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/152448459357/winter-robin-series-robins-family-helloooooo-i), and [here is the soundtrack](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/153017945157/winter-robin-soundtrack). Please, check them out and let me know what you think of both this chapter and the posts. Tumbler post with gifs will be out this weekend!
> 
> Love you with my whole heart and soul, you guys are amazing! :D
> 
> PS: A little bit of teasing... Something really, really good is going to happen in the next chapter muajajaja


	18. Flares

Goddamn it. Goddamn those bastards. Goddamn world. Goddamn everyone and everything. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s too good and pure and beautiful. She’s innocent. What happened to her was an accident, she’s not a killer, for fuck’s sake. How can they blame her, how can _she_ blame herself for the death of her parents and brother? I bet my insignificant life that it was all fucking Hydra. It makes me furious to know that they screwed up her life just as much as mine and if I had my way with them, if they come looking for me, I’ll crack their bones one by one and then I’ll kill them, for me and for her. Jesus. Robin doesn’t need my murderous thoughts, she needs me to take care of her and bring her back.

Like hell I sleep. I’m angry and sick worried, but thankful and proud at the same time because she trusted me enough to open herself to me. I’m more confident about the ground I’m stepping on, the feeling that I don’t know her, that she’s a stranger has disappeared completely. Maybe there are still unrevealed secrets, maybe we won’t ever be able to get rid of the fear, maybe this happiness will end tomorrow, next month, ten years from now, but we are right where we belong. This is us, a little bit messy, ruined, but real. Knowing it, feeling it, spreads a massive wave of serenity throughout my body. They’ll have to break my arms and legs to untangle them from hers, hold me down with ablaze chains if they want to take her away, and I’ll rip to shreds any poor bastard who dares to try it. My arms tighten around her. She’s warm and limp, nonetheless, her breathing isn’t fully normal and she squirms in my embrace, letting out quiet whines. God knows I’d give up my life if that’s what it takes for her dreams to gain the peace they deserve. Sunrise peeks from the gap between the newspapers covering my windows, summer mornings break through the cold and the ice and we’re together in my bed. I let out a content sigh because even though we’re laying on the ashes, the blue fire in her keep us alive. We can live now.

It’s probably eight when I can’t stand it anymore. I’m torn between staying with her and getting up to make breakfast. She should eat something when she wakes up. I battle for another ten minutes and reluctantly leave her side to be of use; wounds, internal and external ones, are not going to heal with cuddles. I open the cupboard and groan when I see it’s empty, except for pancakes flour. If I remember correctly, these things need eggs, milk and flour, but I ran out of the first two ingredients, or any actual food. Damn it. Robin might have milk and eggs, and I can look for anything to add to our meal. I wrap the blankets around her, adjust my pillow under her head to replace the support my body was providing and head towards her apartment. The sight of the room is gut-wrenching; chairs and table upside-down, cushions splashed by blood drops and shattered glasses on the floor. It’s not the mess she did, but her reasons to do it and it hurts to even imagine how desperate, how broken she felt that the only leak her pain found was devastation and self-harm. She doesn’t deserve this. I shake my head and focus on the task at hand; find the damn eggs and milk. I feel utterly blessed when I spot them as I open the fridge, and there’s plenty enough for both of us. I quickly grab them, along with some fruits, water and juice, and hurry back to my apartment, trying my hardest to ignore the way out. She’s still far asleep and I can’t help but grimace at the scratches on her gorgeous skin. I threatened to kill those bastards if they laid a hand on her, but given that she did that herself _because of them_ , I’ll have to make us even first chance I get. 

I put the food down and then it hits me; sweat, something metallic and dirt. The smell of my own transpiration, her blood and the dirty air of the city coat my clothes, skin and hair. Damn it, Barnes. Did you hug her smelling like this? My self-consciousness leads me, practically running, towards the bathroom to look at my reflection in the mirror, feeling sick at the sight in front of me; I’m nothing but a full-bearded burglar with greasy hair. I dared to touch her like this. Fuck. I take off my clothes and step into the shower without thinking twice. I don’t pay attention to the cold streaming water, I rub the soap violently over my skin and scratch my scalp until the shampoo becomes foam. I must wash up the stink of the miles that separated us, remove her absence, her suffering, and the loneliness. Minutes later, I’m out of the bathroom, already shaved, and walk over my closet to find clean clothes to change into, realizing that most of my belonging are still inside my bag pack. I curse under my breath, but end up looking for it anyways. I curse louder when I remember that I dropped it at Robin’s apartment and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her again. Defeated, I pick out a pair of sweatpants and a white shirt hanging there and put them on in harsh, irritated movements. 

It’s not surprising the furniture isn’t dusty, I’m sure Robin kept the place as habitable as she could while I was gone, and it also seems that she didn’t nose around since everything is exactly the way I left it. Christ. I’m a lucky son of a bitch for having this wonderful human being taking care of me. I wait for another hour before I start to cook our breakfast. I want her food to be warm when she wakes up, which happens rather sooner than I expected. The pile of pancakes is set on the table, there’s coffee, fruit, milk and I pour some juice on two glasses for us. A proud smirk appears on my face, satisfied with my work, and then I hear a soft groan.

‘Morning’, her croaky voice makes me turn around. Her sleepy, swollen eyes are looking at me. She remains laying on the bed, her blue, messy head popping out of the sheets. 

‘Hey’, I greet, relieved that she didn’t wake up panicked, absorbed by her nightmares. It’s just her half lidded eyes and fatigued expression taking in their surroundings. She frowns, wincing at the sting of her cuts. ‘How– how are you feeling?’, the worry intensely laced with my tone makes her blink a few times. She stares at me, deep lost in her effort to understand what I’m saying. Her confusion towards a simple question is disturbing.

‘Better’, she utters, and there’s an attempt of her colorful smile as she straightens up and sniffs. I clear my throat, the sudden action making her cringe and her eyeballs move frantically to look for the source of danger.

‘Are you hungry?’, I interrupt her fearful viewing and force her to turn her head in my direction. The anxiety and the tension on her shoulders dissolve as her gaze settles upon me, her whole body reacting the moment she acknowledges me completely. ‘Made pancakes’, I try to give her my most reassuring smile and she returns the gesture. Instead of making her stand up and walk all the way to the table, I put two pancakes in one plate, a glass of juice, coffee and these weird round fruits and gather everything on a tray. I know no better remedy than breakfast in bed. I hope so. Seven smooth, fluid steps guide me towards her alert watch and I kneel at the edge of the bed, placing the tray on her lap with even more caution. 

‘Thanks’, she says gruffly and I nod, making sure that she’ll be able to eat by herself before I stand up to get my food. I take the chocolate syrup and walk back to the bed, sitting down next to her, as close as possible. I let out a muffled moan when I take the first bite of pancakes swimming in syrup and she snickers, an endearing melody that fills my head with rainbow sparks. The taste of real food after two months is beyond heartwarming, and my body appreciates it too. We eat in silence, I devour the mountain in front of me with a content grin on my face, but after I finish and turn to ask her if she’d like anything else, her plate is almost full, the fruit discarded at one side and her glass of juice is half empty. I frown, both in disappointment and concern, and she looks at me remorsefully. Pressing her wouldn’t be a good idea given the delicate state of her mind, so I simply remove the tray from her and head to set the dirty diches on the sink to wash them later. I have to come up with an idea to prevent her from depriving herself from food and get malnourished, but my thoughts are deviated by her shy voice. ‘Can I– can I take a shower here?’. She’s curled up, staring at me with huge, lovely brown irises. 

‘Yeah, let me check if there’s hot running water’. I don’t know if the warmer still works, and we can’t have a little bird getting a nasty cold. Fortunately, it does, and I’m starting to think that life is on my whole side this day. Everything is going well so far; I pray my lucky ass can handle this situation until the end. She’s standing with her arms folded over her chest, bow-legged, patiently waiting for me. She looks down at herself and I take in her appearance for the first time since last night’s incident. Her sore knees are barely supporting the rest of her body and the remains of blood contrast with the yellow fabric of her dress. She took off the hoodie while I was gone and now the bruises of her arms are in display for me to kiss away. I cough to push my mind back to the right course. ‘Want me to get you some clothes from your closet?’, she purses her lips, embarrassed by her silent request. I leave to her apartment and I hope she doesn’t mind what I pick for her. I’m lost when it comes to clothing, but my brain manages to make an effort and ponders on what she’d be comfortable with. The weather has become kinder, the day isn’t too cold or hot and the same goes for night. I spot a loose shirt and shorts that look suitable for the template temperature. ‘Are these okay?’, I verify, she nods in approval and I hand her the garments and a towel.

My peace of mind doesn’t last that long. She spends solid twenty-five minutes in the shower and I start to get worried. What if she faints? The image of her laying on the floor terrifies me. What if I mistake a noise, kick the door open and find her naked? The image of her plainness is even more terrifying, not because I think she’s ugly, she truly isn’t, but because I don’t know what my reaction will be at such forbidden sight. I busy myself in washing the dishes, making the bed and cleaning whatever I think of to release the tension building up in my muscles. And then she’s out, much to my relief.

‘How are you feeling?’, I waste no time, blurting out the question. I’m sitting on the couch, fidgeting and demanding my nerves to calm the hell down. She’s rubbing her eyes, visibly more relaxed and cleaner. I already know what is she going to say before she does.

‘I’m tired’, she mumbles, walking over the couch and snuggling in my right side. She’s warm, her figure molding into mine as it did back in the park. I wrap my flesh arm around her shoulders and kiss the top of her head.

‘It’s okay, just go back to sleep’, she curls herself into a ball and lets out a sigh, turning in different angles until she finds the most comfortable position. When she fails, I switch to lay her on top of me and she hooks her leg around my waist instinctively, closing the distance between her need and my sanity. I rub her back, lulling her to deep slumber while I convince myself that this is where she’s the safest. What from? Her siblings. The world. And herself. I got a glimpse of the past that has been hunting her for years and somehow I could understand those unspoken reasons she was unable to articulate whenever I questioned her about them. I’m not the great psychological analyzer, I’m brainwashed, for Christ’s sake, still in my neurasthenic scrutiny, it’s clear that her ultimate motivation is guilt. It hurts to even think that she’s trapped in the same cage I am, swallowed by blood, suffocating in the depths of death. I want her to be free, to live, live with me weather it’s as a friend, a brother or something as simple and important as the protective figure she lacked of her entire life. She’d ask and I wouldn’t hesitate to comply because I _care_ about her. I care so much about her, and even though I know it’s an insult to all I feel for her, I’m afraid that if I think it out loud, it might not be real. But it’s there. This nonsense messing up with my brain, this stupid insecurity comes from the uncanny emotion emerging from my insides and after being who I was, do what I did, after being lost in a world that I didn’t belong to anymore, I gave up on me. I thought myself incapable of owning feelings again, to be functional in a social environment, walk on the street without the ever-present breathing on my neck, to sleep without nightmares, to talk to people, to be normal. To be _human_. And then, she said “ _Hello, you must be my new neighbor_ ” and she smiled. She treated me like a person, made me feel like a person. She dragged me out of the ice, she showed the world to me and gave me back a part of myself I didn’t know I had lost. She fucking did it, and she holds me dear against her chest, where I’m the safest and the weakest, and I can do this for her.

My hope downfalls right on my feet just when I thought we we’re heading out of the hole. Three days. She wakes up screaming at night, calling my name from the darkest corner of her nightmares, I try my best to soothe the terrors and she clutches my shirt as if her life depends on it. Maybe it does. Her tears are the only makeup she wears, the bags under her eyes keep growing and the always creamy skin I love to caress turns alarmingly pale. She refuses to eat and drink, and when I convince her to try some milk, she throws everything out. I’m losing her, the hugs and kisses became cold at her touch, the sweet nothings I whisper to her ear don’t make it to her heart and the blue of her hair is fading away with every hour I’m not strong enough to hold her. This situation is scaring the hell out of me and my nerves are one thousand percent hypertensive. The lowest noise she makes gets me on my feet ready to shoot. I don’t know what to do, the impotence is a whirlpool that disables my brain. I feel pathetic. Her body is burning my skin and it starts to hurt. Suddenly, I can’t stand being with her, so I break our embrace and move without disturbing her. My lungs scream for air that is not invaded by rotted apples and marshmallow. I walk out of the apartment and place my palms on the bar of the balcony, where Robin and I spoke for the first time nearly half a year ago. I remember her eased off face, my eyes outlining her nose, her curvy lips and the childish shape of her face. I remember how awestruck I was by the stars brighting up her hair and the sunset light bathing her skin. She was burning then too, like an eager, flightless bird. 

It’s already afternoon when I go back inside, six o’clock to be exact. Robin has to eat or she’ll get worse, her body will weaken even more and I can’t allow that. I have to take care of her with the same fervor she did when I rejected any kind of help. Every time she noticed a troubled expression on my face, a variance in my demeanor, she’d paid extra attention to the details, and that’s exactly what I’ll do. An idea crosses my mind; time outdoors might play a significant role to change the dynamics of her recovery. The Rolling Stones and food at the rooftop. That’s it. I put on my cap and jacket, running out of the apartment to buy those ham and cheese sandwiches that she likes. The fear of finding her screaming or hurting herself is the only incentive I register to move faster than usual. If she wakes up and I’m not there, God knows how is she going to react. As soon as the take-away boxes are in my hands, my muscles take me back to our home in a matter of seconds. The moment I reach our flat and open the door of my apartment, I let out an almost theatrical sigh in relief; she’s right where I left her, curled like a small cat on the bed, breathing peacefully. First of all, I take the boombox, a bunch of cushions and our food upstairs so I can react quickly if she has a panic or asthma attack. My hands must be at her absolute disposal. Once everything is settled, I approach to her and shake her shoulders as gently as I can.

‘Time for dinner’, she groans and turns her back to me. Damn it. ‘Come on, Robin’, I plead but she remains still. I hung my head in frustration. She’s not responding again and if I don’t upgrade the tactics to persuade her to get some nutrition for today, there won’t be other choice than a doctor, or worse, a hospital. ‘Please’, my last try is followed by a louder groan. 

‘I’m not hungry’, her voice is muffled by the pillow. I’m having none of that. This is not about pressuring her anymore, her health is at stake and I’m not doing her any good by spoiling her. The nice treatment proved to be useless.

‘You gotta eat’, my tone is stern, a quality it has to acquired if I aim to kick some sense in her head. She turns and looks at the with imploring eyes and my strict attitude falters for an instant. Come on, Barnes. Man up. I lift her from the bed without asking her permission or giving her the chance to protest.

‘What–?’ 

‘It’s alright, I promise’, I pledge, carrying her out of the apartment. Although I’m well aware of her puzzled expression, I don’t leave room for questions and she more or less consents. She’s lost some weight, she’s bonier and flaccid and I’m not so sure it’s all due to the last three days. Another tons of worry to add to the pile. My muscles are slightly rigid from spending that much time in a complete stationary state, but this activity has never represented an issue. She’s a leaf falling from a tree to land straight in my arms. _Buongiorno Principessa_. She’s quiet, drowsy, her head rests in defeat on my chest. ‘Fresh air will be good for you’, it’s a long shot, but I have to keep trying. As we get to the rooftop, her face lights up just a little. The memories mingle with the fresh breeze tousling her hair, I inhale both her essence and the smell of spring. This is what we need, security, peace and each other. I set her down with the utmost care, adjust her to be comfortable on the cushions and kneel next to her. ‘I brought our dinner’, I say, gesturing the take-away boxes and the fruit on the ledge.

‘But I’m not–’,

‘It’s ham and cheese, and fruit’, I rush to affirm and she winces. ‘Please, just try out’, my enervated tone seems to affect her enough to grab a box. It would take me so little to throw my arms at the air and cry of joy. I turn to where I left the boombox and few of her favorite cassettes, picking _Their Satanic Majesties Request_ because it’s been so goddamn long. I don’t fight the wide smile spreading across my face when the first song starts to play and the corner of Robin’s mouth twists. It might work, God be good to me and let this help her to get better. Let her come back to me. 

The music and the occasional bites to her sandwich unfasten the tight knot on my throat that’s been suffocating me ever since she broke down. I don’t care if this my stupid, blind hope or a delusional vision of her actions; she showed the minimal sign of improvement and it’s doing wonders lowering my anxiety. I engulf four sandwiches in the blink and eye and she _chuckles_. This must be my fucking lucky day. She’s done with half of hers and started to nibble at he rounded fruits. I take one on my hand and frown at it; what the hell is this supposed to be? It looks like a purple peach, but its surface isn’t as smooth, yet it is soft. I take another and examine them to figure out if they’re peaches or not. I don’t remember eating them before.

‘What are these?’, I ask, brows knitted. Her expression softens and she flashes a rainbow smile

‘Plums’, she explains in the most caressing way I’ve heard her speak. I quirk one eyebrow and her smile fades. ‘I read they’re… good for the memory’, she looks down and bends her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. The implication of her statement leaves me cold to the bones. She’s witnessed first hand how much I’ve struggled to put together the lost pieces of my mind, both as Bucky Barnes and The Winter Soldier, and the information she’s proving sounds like an unintentional suggestion. I deciphered the meaning even though it wasn’t articulated, that’s why it saddened her. But before I can dig further into the subject, a happy melody fills the space between us. I can’t help myself and begin to hum, cherishing the wave of emotions that simple song carries with it. Robin lifts her head, pureness twinkling in her chocolate-brown eyes. _She comes in colors everywhere_. I look right through her. The most intense, the fiercest. _She combs her hair_. Robin flushes. She’s like a rainbow. Robin frowns. ‘Why do you like that song so much?’. 

‘It reminds me of you’, the truth burst out of my moth. There’s not stopping it, not denying it, not faking it. ‘She comes in colors everywhere’, I start to sing along, absentmindedly. ‘She combs her hair’, her cheeks blush with a strong shade of pink. My smile grows wider at the sight of her wearing such a lovely color. ‘She’s like a rainbow’, she’s a rainbow, after all. ‘You’re like a rainbow to me, a rainbow robin’, her eyes widen, her shoulders tense, shuddering, and her hands close into fists. My confession leaves her speechless and I curse myself. I didn’t say too much, right? The unintentional implication has been heard before. I did nothing wrong, right? We’ve been bolder, we have admitted certain, intimate truths, we’ve touched without restrictions. Why does it feel different this time? Fuck. _Fuck_. I open my mouth to say something, anything to fix my mistake, but close it at the lack of explanations. I’m about to stand up, the urge to run away and give us space, give us the chance to breathe, lunges against my tired being with all its might. I’m about to leave her for the millionth time when she leans forward and presses her lips against mine. Jesus fucking Christ. Those heart-shaped lips are glued to mine. Mine. No one else’s. Mine. Her tiny hands grasp my shirt, locking me closer with a strength unknown by me. I’m paralyzed, my body starts to shiver in panic, stuck in the orange sunrays mingling with her blueness, her kiss setting my soul on fire. She’s kissing me. Lord Almighty. She’s kissing me. It’s hard and furious and weak. She’s kissing me…

Never, for one moment, I dare to close my eyes, so when she pulls away, I face her fractured expression. We stare at each other for unending, fiery seconds. She covers her mouth, her fingers ghost over her plump lips and her eyes are full of yet unshed tears. Robin kissed me. It was wild and pure. I graze my own unsure fingers over the place where the traces of her colors linger. Kissed by fire. The slow action of time allows me to pounder in the infinite amount of scenarios playing in my head, the static drawing our hearts where they belong and the friction sinking our knees in the ridiculous space separating us. And she’s here, more real than ever, staring at me like I just broke her heart, and she looks so beautiful wearing swollen, trembling lips. I replay the secuence of her mouth pressed against mine and how she kissed me so hard, with such urgency and it seems to me like there's one rational thing left to do; to take her in my arms and kiss her again, so I do.

The fire burns slowly. I let it crawl its way up to my chest, guide my hands to squeeze her arms and smash our bones until there’s nothing left but dust. I hear and feel her pulse blast off like flares in the night. I find my hands running up and down her sides, making her shiver and open her mouth. Her fingers bury themselves into my hair and yank my head back. Clean, striking fierceness. She darts her tongue out to lick my bottom lip and I snap. Heat unfurls deep in my loins. She tastes like the warmth of the sea, sweet with the vestiges of the plums, driving me insane with hunger. 

‘ _Ya ves’ tvoy, letniy briz i raduga_ ’, I whisper in the brief moment we part to catch our breaths. 

‘ _Da, ty moy_ ’, she replies, placing her open mouth on mine, moving her lips so mild and tough that my head spins around the world. Eyes closed and unfettered need. It’s my tongue fighting against hers; it’s her mouth losing itself into mine. It’s my soul thawing for hers. It’s us.

‘ _Ya ves’ tvoy_ ’, it’s a promise.

‘ _Moya yarkaya zvezda vsekh_ ’, it’s eternal.

And there are no words left to speak. We kiss for ages, for ever, until the taste of her is as familiar as jelly-beans and ice-cream, until I claim her lips and tongue as my own. She sits on my lap, her legs bracing my thighs and our arms snake around the curves of our bodies. The idea of stopping is unthinkable, nothing has ever been so real, so human. It’s the primal instinct what excites our collision and it’s the natural merging what hold us together. It’s resolve. There’s no horror, no guilt, no past. We are the only truth that matters. It goes on and on until the sky is pierced by stars and her mouth moves tiredly. At some point, my hands ended up under the fabric of her blouse, my thumbs drawing chaotic circles on her lower back, and her palms rub the unexposed skin of my chest. 

‘ _Smerkayetsya_ ’, I manage to mumble and she hums an affirmation, ignoring what I say and tugging at my hair to get my attention back. Oh, God. I indulge her desires and mine, and tilt my head to deepen the kiss, if that’s even possible. We’ve been kissing so long that my jaw aches and my tongue is sore from twirling. We have to stop, against the best part of my judgment, we must stop. I pull back and she grunts. Is she even aware of what that sounds like to my corrupted ears? Damn her. ‘ _Davayte popast' vnutr_ '’, she sighs, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw. I’ve never seen her in such pleasant state, barely aware, and I’m sure she doesn’t even understand what I’m saying. I’m light-headed as fuck too, a tired smile creeping on where her lips were seconds ago. We inspect the other’s eyes and I find nothing but the adoration of mine duplicating in hers. As if my thoughts are bare for her to read, she smiles and there’s my rainbow girl again. I peck the tip of her nose and hide my face in the crook of her neck. She rubs my shoulders, kissing she side of my head. ‘ _Davay vernemsya_ ’, I mumble and she nods, letting out the purest chuckle I’ve ever heard. As she pulls back with a lovely twist in the corner of her mouth, the urge to kiss her again knocks the air out of me. Damn it, Barnes.

There’s a trail of suffering in her eyes, a lingering shadow, the rest is covered by glittering brown and her face shines with dazzling colors. Something has changed. The cuts on her cheeks have healed almost completely, her breathing has evened and her heart is beating at a slow, but firm pace. She’s not wearing a mask to cover her pain, after three days of watching her die little by little, her body rotting in my arms, she’s coming back to me. We stay there for another minute, figuring out the new picture in front of us. She kissed me. I kissed her. I still can’t believe it. She cares about me that much, that clean. She made sure I could feel it all through her lips and tongue, the way she kissed me screamed the things none of us is able to say out loud yet. The weight of my absence and the friction between us has now found a release. But how things are going to be now? We’ve overstepped the boundaries of whatever kind of relationship we had and there’s no coming back. How am I supposed to touch her now? The fervent intimacy flowing between us for months have blossomed until it became this. What name am I going to call her? If she…

‘ _Uspokoysya_ ’, she shushes when she senses my uneasiness. I frown, realizing that we’ve been speaking Russian this whole time. She cups my face and leans forward, brushing her mouth against my jaw. ‘ _Ya zdes' s vami seychas_ ’. Her words sink in inch by inch, their meaning, their truth, and I close my eyes as I let them invade me. They don’t hurt like those that’s been spoken by murderers and maniacs, I react differently to them because, for once, they’re meant to be more than commands, they’re not strings forcing me to move on the chess board and fight until I’m the only one standing, until it’s enough and every single one of them is dead. ‘ _Ya prosto khochu tebya_ ’, she comforts me in a quiet voice, but her whispers rumble inside my skull. ‘ _Ya ves’ tavoy_ ’. She’s mine. I give her a tiny nod and she pecks my nose as I did a couple of minutes ago. I didn’t realize when the music stopped playing or the food ran cold, and I don’t give a damn. That can wait to be taken care of, this is happening. We are happening. She tries to stand up, her legs lacking of the strength to do so. I put my arms around her waist and lift her along with me as careful as before.

We pick up our belongings and even though I assure her I can take it all, she insists on helping me with the take-away boxes and a cushion. Full handed with the boombox, the cassettes and the rest of the cushions, I adjust them so if she falls, it’ll be enough room for me to throw everything and catch her before she falls. She doesn’t, but her knees struggle to keep the balance, trembling as we walk slowly downstairs. Once we reach our flat, I head towards my apartment. It’s not late, yet I’m dead tired and want to get into bed with her as soon as possible, hold her flush against me and kiss those heart-shaped lips I miss already. Barnes, you needy bastard. Before I ask her if she could open the door, she grabs my arm and makes me turn to her.

‘Wait’, she calls. I look at her in confusion and she gestures her apartment’s door. ‘I wanna take a look’, my muscles tense immediately. She’s improved so much, she ate, walked and smiled, she seems to be climbing out of the hole witch such effort and willingness that I can’t help but doubt it’s a good idea. She notices my hesitance, running her palm up my shoulder and giving it a light squeeze in reassurance. Even though I agree with a reluctant nod, I set our things down to step by her side, just in case. She takes my hand immediately, looking for contact and I draw circles over her knuckles to encourage her. She’s going to do this, but she won’t be alone. Both our breaths hitch in our throats as she opens the door.

Her brows knit in confusion. The scenario she was expecting is not the one she’s facing. I have to explain to her why there are no longer the remains of the shattered glass, the thrown boxes are piled next to a wall and most of the furniture is clean and in place. 

‘I didn’t want you to see–, so I cleaned up a bit’, I say, hoping she doesn’t get mad. She looks up to me, a million sparks in her eyes, and stands on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek in an appreciative gesture. She lets go of my hand, kneels in front of the pile of boxes and starts to put them on the floor one by one, spreading them around her and taking out the objects inside. I take the hint and kneel next to her, helping in silence. There’s no specific method, she actually seems to be looking for something and I settle for mimicking her. We do that for a few minutes, our breaths resonating in the air and the sound of our languid motions fill the room until she picks out a bunch of pictures and a couple of albums. I hear her gasp, a weak sob emerging from her chest. ‘What is it?’, the intrinsic reflex to fight anything that harms her or threatens her well-being kicks in and I crawl closer, my hands orbiting around her body. When I look down over her shoulders, understanding begins to clear up my mind and my heart shrinks along with my stomach: it’s a small picture, like the ones taken with her old camera, and there are two persons, a man and a woman, looking at something in the distance with a huge smile on their faces. Their features are jovial, carefree; happy. Both of them black-haired, light skin and big eyes, one pair frozen blue, one pair Robin’s own chocolate brown. ‘Your parents?’, it’s half a question, half an affirmation. She nods without tearing her eyes off the image, grief and melancholy making her shiver. It had to be them, I’d knew even if I didn’t because there’s so much of them in her; their smiles, the upturned nose from the woman and the eyes-shape of the man. Robin is a uniform mixture of her parents. She tarries on the picture, and the next one steals another, yet harsher, whimper from her.

‘This is Alex’, she runs her trembling fingers over the image of a young man with black hair and iced-blue eyes. He’s smiling too, his gaze is locked with someone else’s, a little girl wearing a light, pink dress of princess and a blue wig. The irony. They’re laughing, and I don’t fight back the smile forming on my lips at such endearing sight. ‘My mom took this picture before he left to Kiev’, she continues with a sad tone and a shrill runs up my spine; he can’t be more than eighteen. Her brother was taken away from home when he was barely an adult, they took him away from her and terminated every drop of life in him. Just like me, just like many others. My jaw clenches in anger. Insatiable bastards. Damn them. The next picture frames two kids and I already know who they are before she confirms it. ‘The twins, Irina and Liev’. Even as teenagers, they look deadly, impassive, anything but human. I don’t share the same empathy for them as for their brother, even if they probably saw worse horrors at a younger age. To me, they play a mayor part on the reasons’ for Robin’s fear, her nightmares and guilt. They torment her, haunt her and tear the peace away from her fragile hands. ‘She’s very much like my mother, well, physically’, her comment brings my attention back to a new set of pictures. She’s comparing two of them. In the first one, there’s her mother, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life; plum, red lips, heart-shaped like Robin’s, crystal clear, iced-blue eyes and serene expression. In the second, the exact replica of her on sharper, darker angles. She’s just as beautiful, but there’s something unnatural and dreadful in her, like a devil in the flesh, blood in her lips, death in her eyes. Like Natalia. The Red Room coats their beauty, there’s more than brutal grace and perfection, there are years of sweat and pain. _She was a third option_. After Natalia, after Yelena, those were Maria’s words when I asked her about Irina Vronzkaya. _Removed from the program_. She said, and I can’t help but wonder why. _Too young to be of use_. Maybe too young to be abused; I can almost pity her. I shake my head, dragging my thoughts out of a path I’m not willing to head to yet.

‘You look like your mother too’, and it’s true, the soft curves and features are her mother’s, except for the eyes, I say to myself.

‘I’m more like my dad’, she retorts. I see why; although the three of them are similar, there’s a different light in Robin. No. It’s not a light, it’s the colors everywhere. Pictures from her family slide from one hand to another, they where hidden, that’s why I never saw any. She buried her past so no one, not even her, could reach nor remember there was such darkness in it. 

‘How were they? The twins’, I ask in a cautions manner and she sighs heavily, leaning closer to me, my metal hand brushing the fabric of her shorts.

‘They’ve always hated me, and they’re not afraid to say it, or show it, for that matter’, she lets out a dry chuckle and shrugs. ‘They weren’t violent, not always, they just said things and did things that– they made sure I feared them, even now that we’re older’, I’m unable to control the anger whenever they’re mentioned. I focus on the bunch of pictures that gets thinner to distract my mind from nasty scenarios that involve me choking the life out of them. 

‘And your parents?’, I’m frowning at her, honestly curious about what she’s telling me. For the first time since we met, I can assure we’re at the same level of bareness and honesty, I can almost say I know her as much as she knows me. 

‘Loving’, she simply says and hands me another picture. She selects very few, separating them on a different lot. ‘And this is my grandma, the only one I knew, at least’. It’s not that old of a dame, she has gentle wrinkles on the corner of her big, brown eyes and a kind smile on her delicate lips. It’s probably her paternal grandmother. ‘She took care of me while I was at the hospital when my parents died and made sure that I had everything to survive after they did’, the sadness takes over her tone again.

‘Is she– is she alive?’, I ask, hoping the answer is a straight negative, but if she’s alive, why isn’t Robin with her?

‘No, she passed away a few months after my parents’, like I guessed. These secrets are being unraveled in a safety we find in the other’s presence, she’s granting me permission to know every name and face that have shaped her life the way it is now and I can’t help but admire and respect her even more. Her brother killed her mother, she shot her father by accident, her siblings blame her for those misfortunes and the only relative she had left died no longer after. I close my eyes for a brief moment, imagining her wandering through the streets of stranger cities, without family or home, alone in a world that had treated her in the vilest of ways. Fuck Hydra. She deserved to play with her siblings as a normal kid, to be loved and protected by her parents, then maybe, find some guy who worships her, reminds her there’s more than pain and misery. It’s not that she needs someone to take care of her, she did that for herself during the years she traveled running away from the ones who were supposed to support her, but to find someone who’s able to see everything she is, everything she’s not and everything she could be and be with her every step of the way is what she deserves. It’s something I wish for her to have. The memory of us kissing gives me hope, it makes me believe that I’m worth her care and smiles and I’ll be strong enough to help her. Let it me be, because God knows I need her as much as I hope she needs me. 

The images on the pictures change into clouds and sunset skies, cities from each corner of the world, from the north to the south, west to the east, and the oceans between them. I recognize some of them, but I’m sure I don’t know most of the landscapes; Canada, Italy, Spain, Germany, London and even Japan. There are plenty of objects in the boxes from Germany and London, and I’m guessing she was there longer than the rest of the countries.

‘You’ve been everywhere’, I utter, inspecting yet another bunch of pictures. I’m just nosing around, she’s accommodating them in different lots and putting them inside the albums, probably to set them in a better place later.

‘Not really, just where I spoke the language of’, she says nonchalantly, focused on her private selection.

‘Why do you speak so many?’, I ask and turn to her. She tenses under my gaze, her demeanor turning bitter.

‘My grandfather forced me to learn as many as I could, he hired private teachers for me and my siblings’, she sounds neutral, but I pick the resentful tone in her voice.

‘What else did he do?’, the suspicious inquire makes her look back at me, slightly alarmed that I could infer her message. I don’t need to know who he was, he’s related to Hydra, a word full of war and horrors no one can ever imagine. Holy shit. We’re getting closer to that issue I’ve been avoiding for the last couple of months and the last three days, and I’m starting to panic because I don’t know what to do with the information I acquired in Kiev. It feels wrong, like it’s something I shouldn’t know and don’t have the power to manipulate. Robin ignores the debate taking place inside my head and looks down, breathing deeply before answering.

‘He was a control freak, sick manipulator. His disciplining methods consisted on multiple activities to enrich both my intellectual and physique's abilities. When I became eleven, I started training martial arts, I wasn’t as good as in figure-skating, but I wasn’t that pathetic either. I could block a punch every now and then’, she chuckles. The anger doesn’t reach her features; it impregnates her speech. ‘He used to say that the best way to improve is to challenge the best, and that one was Irina. He made us fight each other, and she was… heartless’. Irina Vronzkaya. Third option. Removed from the program. Too young to be of use. Apparently, their family didn’t think the same. ‘It was until she broke four of my ribs that my mom asked him to stop the training’. Oh, good God. She experimented the effects of The Red Room training in a secondary level, the son of a bitch of her grandfather was testing them both, their endurance to pain, their determination to bring their opponent down, and nothing that Robin could have possibly done to defend herself was going to work. It makes me nauseously furious. She didn’t deserve any of that, and I won’t get tired of thinking that way. I have to shake my head in order to clear my head, otherwise, I’d punch the wall to release the wrath and impotence running through my veins. 

‘What’s figure-skating?’, instead of answering me, she hands me a picture. I frown. It’s a young girl… dancing in the ice. One of her strong legs is outstretched in a horizontal position while the rest of her body leans forward, her arms attached to her sides, forming some kind of diagonal. Camera flashes and faces fill the background. She’s wearing a dark-blue dress with sparkles from the chest to the brim of the short skirt, meat color socks and white shoes piercing the ice. My heart skips a beat. The girl looks exactly like Robin, but her hair is painted black, like her mother’s and sister’s and it flows with her static movements. Her younger face is marble, distant, a porcelain doll in display for anyone to judge. Somehow, I manage to see through her makeup and find her colors. Robin’s grace and Robin’s glimmer, the most graceful creature dressed in blue and silver. An exotic animal trapped in a show, living to entretain the empty crowd, like that old story of the swan who was haunted, like a winter bird; a _winter robin_. 

‘I really loved it, and I was very good at it, even won a couple of medals, gold and silver’, I barely hear her. I’m immersed in this image, mesmerized by the glory emanating from her. In my mind, she’s flying with broken wings, submerged in a world of beauty, stars and snowflakes. The rest is left in the shadows. The rest remains a secret.

‘I’d love to see you skating some day’, I find myself whispering and when I look at her, she’s blushing. Adorable as hell, fucking damn it. I clear my throat. ‘You know why did you all move to Russia?’. This is turning into an interrogation and I pray she thinks I’m merely being curious. 

‘It had to do with some family business’, her rationalization is innocent and it confirms to me that she’s not involved with Hydra in the slightest. Not consciously. ‘My parents were scientists and they worked for an experimental department of the government’, she says with another small shrug.

‘What about your brother?’.

‘I don’t know anymore’, her lips quiver. It seems I grazed over a nerve because her face fractures again. ‘All my life I thought he was in a special military division, some kind of private agency, but the twins told me he– that he was into terrorism’. It was a good lie, but she struggles to assume it as a truth.

‘Do you believe them?’.

‘I wish I could, but if I don’t, then what? That’s not gonna change what happened, it would justify few things, not explain them’, she’s lost and desperate. She has nothing left to rely on, nothing can be trusted and the one thing that could dissipate the fog around the truth is dangerous. It could demolish her and everything she thinks she knows. Her destruction and freedom is in my hands, it would be fair, it would be merciful, but I’m a coward. ‘I need to think through more carefully, right now I just want to get rid of these’, she lifts a bunch of pictures, her index finger pointing at the one in the front. ‘The wonder twins’, she spats. ‘They were also part of a school for gifted kids or something, but couldn’t complete the program because we moved to America when I was born’.

‘Thought you were born in Russia’, I comment honestly, still avoiding the subject.

‘No, born and raised in Boston, we moved there when I was eight’, she clarifies. ‘We had this huge house in St. Petersburg, a mansion that had been acquired by my mother’s family during the Empire’.

‘Is that why your name isn’t like theirs?’. If I’m correct, her full name is Robin Dawson, and her siblings have Russian first and last names. She pouts, hesitating in her response.

‘Well, I never asked my mom why did she choose that name in particular, and technically, Alex and the twins are my half-siblings. All I know is that my mom married my dad a couple of years before I was born’, we’re heading down that path again. She’s getting more and more distressed by the minute, and if we continue, I’ll be forced to spit it out. ‘There are many things I still don’t understand, and I’m starting to believe that I never will’. I’m silently imploring her to deviate. _Please, don’t go there. Don’t make me tell you_. Damn it. She deserves to know the reasons behind her family’s tragedies, she deserves to know that nothing, not a single thing was her fault. It was all Hydra, they messed up her entire existence, she was born in a war that wasn’t hers to fight. She’s not a soldier, nor a killer, she’s a victim, someone standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. My little bird, broken wings and sunset smiles. You don’t belong here, you belong to the skies and the clouds, where you can fly without chains and demons. You deserve to know.

‘Robin, I know what–’, I start. She looks at me with pleading eyes, as if she can guess what I’m about so say. I must tell her. But if I do, then she’ll know, and in this cruel war, certain things are dangerous to be known. If she knows, then they’ll have something to take from her, they can torture her until she screams and bleeds and dies. They will kill her if she knows too much. ‘I know–’. I repeat to myself that she must know, I try to convince myself that it’s the least I can do; be honest with her, give her every piece of the truth I own. But if… No. They can find her, haunt her until she confesses. The image of Robin tied up to a metal chair, crying and begging them to stop, swearing that it’s all that she knows feels like a bullet to my chest. Hydra won’t believe her, they will drain the life out of her body, break her bones and God knows what more. No. If she doesn’t know, she’ll be safe. No. I’m a coward, a sick, fucking coward, and I hope that one day she’ll be able to forgive me and understand my betrayal. ‘I’m just sure that what happened to them wasn’t downright your fault’, the taste of the lie and guilt burns my tongue. _Forgive me, little bird_.

‘Maybe not, but I preferred to ignore it as much as I could, it was easier that way’, she says, and we settle for silence. Ignore it, it’s easier that way. You fucking liar. She busies herself in her previous task, discarding the pictures she chose and shoving them inside a bag designated to dump. I help her to set in order the pile of boxes, few of them are empty, and we stand up simultaneously. Her legs are shaking, so I grab her elbow to offer some support, or be ready to catch her if she falls. I almost forget how small she is, the top of her head hardly reaches under my chin and I have to lean a little to face her; she’s biting down her lip, looking everywhere but at me, and I’m dying to kiss her again and again until my jaw aches and my tongue is sore. The urgency hurts like hell, it distracts me from the guilt. What a perfect alibi. When her eyes meet mine, a warm sparkle lights them up. ‘Bucky, I– we– what happened...’, she stutters and I step closer, framing her petite figure with my broad shoulders in a protective manner. ‘How– how do you feel about it?’. How do I feel? Damn, if there’s an explanation that doesn’t make me sound like a creep, I’d gladly tell her. 

‘I liked it, a lot’, her face turns bright red with my answer. I’m head over heels for her, that’s it, and it does make me stupid and incoherent when it comes to speaking. I take her in my arms and press my forehead against hers, brushing her nose in a tender gesture. She relaxes. ‘I’d never ask you something you cannot give me, I rather leave than–’, she flinches and I curse myself. ‘Sorry, I just wanna make sure you want this too, that I’m not abusing your kindness–’.

‘Don’t’, her interruption is harsh, insulted by my statement. ‘Please, don’t ever think that it was some kind of charity act’, she cups my face in her hands and lean into her touch. ‘You know why I did it, right?’, I nod, defeated. ‘I’m not sure if we’re ready, but I want this, you, it’s all you, the so little you think you can give me, I’ll take it’, her words are getting me drunk with adoration and happiness, they make me forget everything that’s important, everything that hurts. I’m falling without brakes, landing straight into the dearest corner of her chest.

‘What if–?’, I argue, but she shuts me up right away.

‘We’ll figure it out then, we are here and now, it’s you and me, and nothing nor anyone else, we don’t owe them anything, they don’t own us’. There’s that lovely fierceness that grounds my ridiculous mind. ‘You want to belong again? Belong here, stay with me and be Bucky, just Bucky, remember?’. Remember? How could I forget? ‘Would you let me be Robin, just Robin with you?’. The things she says, they drive me crazy and I can’t help but kiss her hard. She kisses me back immediately, bringing me down with a strong grasp on the neck of my shirt. So wild and pure. Her tongue outlines my bottom lip, asking, demanding for entrance, which I grant in an instant. I wonder where did we learn to kiss like this, where did we learn to map our mouths and smother in the taste of our lips. It's the instinct, the confidence and the sense of belonging. My hands travel down to her waist, exploring the skin under her loose shirt and squeezing the smooth flesh of her sides. She sighs and tilts her head, allowing me to deepen our kiss. _Take it away, make me forget_. I plead. _Let it be you the only thing I feel, let me be invaded by you_. She steals my senses, the air smells like apple and marshmallow and there’s a rainbow behind my eyelids. Robin scratch the skin of my neck and I groan, pulling apart before it becomes too much. There’s fire and desire in her half-lidded eyes and it takes me an inhuman effort to contain a loud moan. She’s going to kill me. Damn her.

‘Be Robin with me’, I gasp and she smiles widely. We’re the same wasted soul now. We are of about to reach that place between sleep and awake, where there’s peace and redemption. We’re getting there, slowly, hand by hand, steadfastly, step by step. She gives me a last, chaste kiss and I almost whimper.

‘Thank you for keeping your promise’, she pants. 

‘Do you want me to stay?’, I ask, worried, afraid that her nightmares come back. Our breaths are still heavy, but we’re talking in those soft voices that people use in the middle of the night at the verge of intimacy and bliss.

‘I think it’s fair you take the night off, you look quite tired as well’, she chuckles and breaks our tight embrace. I already miss her warmth. She needs to fully recover from the last couple of days, and I’ll be there if she requires anything. In a second, in a heartbeat.

‘Are you gonna be alright?’, I have to make sure she will, or maybe it’s the greedy bastard speaking for the rational side of my brain.

‘Yeah, thank you’, she assures and I nod, kissing her forehead before walking towards her door.

‘Good night, little bird’, I murmur without tearing my eyes off her rosy cheeks, tripping backwards, smiling like a fool. She’s blue, silver and ice. The winter robin. My rainbow robin. 

‘Good night, Bucky’. 

A little robin all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 18, my darlings! I've been DYING to get to this part, I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you like it. There are a few things that you might want to ask about or debate. You know I'm always open to answer or discuss. Also, yeah, they're finally getting a little bit of peace. WARNINGS: chapters ahead are gonna be fluffly as fuck. Well, mostly.
> 
> Good news: I finished my semester THANKS GOD, so I'll be more active for the next month, and maybe even until February. Thanks for reading, feel free to comment :) Oh, and please, would you reblog the fic on Tumblr? It would be lovely of you to share it ;) LOVE YOU ALL!


	19. Colors

It’s been three weeks. My wounds have healed and Bucky has settled back in his apartment. Twenty-one days since the break down. The world kept spinning around us and we caught up later rather than sooner. We’ve been building up the life we had before he left, before the fall and before the twins. He’s unbelievable patient, he respects my silence and gives me distance when I need it, like he’s always done, yet he’s become more… loving towards me. He says and does things that make me dizzy in a new, indescribable way; the fluttering stroke of his fingertips over my arms, my breathing raising goosebumps on the skin of his neck, our warmth thriving into peace in the evenings we share when I come back from work are a spark of bliss growing from deep inside of me. We recognize, we explore this being that is so fascinating to our eyes, and we cherish it. But it stays in an implied level, we remain in the dark, misshaped and clueless. What are we now? Things have changed between us, we don’t look at each other the same way we used to and we’re not the same. Bucky doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t even mention it, or maybe I forgot how quiet he could be, how oblivious. He hugs me, he kisses my cheek, and it frustrates me to no end. Whenever we’re that close, I fight back the need to tear his mouth apart with my tongue and teeth. He hasn’t kissed me since that first time at the rooftop, I ignore the reason, and I’m too coward, or stupid, to ask him why. I have my theories, mere guesses of his reasons, still I can’t seem to find the right moment to confront him.

I grunt as I walk downstairs, angry at myself for being obsessed with the issue, half the way to the parking lot. I woke up earlier and prepared breakfast for me and Bucky; scrambled eggs with ham, orange juice, coffee and a couple of toasts. He smiles, we talk, he kisses my cheek (Zeus is merciful and graces me with this innocent touch of his lips), I blush and he whishes me a good day. I’m a handful purple hearts and hyperbolic sighs. A handsome, former assassin with a breathtaking smile affects me that much. Oh, boy. I climb up the bicycle and head towards the café with a huge smile on my face. Liana is already there when I arrive, greeting me with an air-cutting hug. Her effusiveness stopped startling me a while ago. It’s another kind of peace that brings her company, it makes me feel confident about my interactions with people and about my own capacity to learn about technology. She’s showed me how friendship is supposed to be. The term is less foreign, and I can finally say that I wholeheartedly treasure it.

Saturday is always a busy day. More customers, more movement, more dishes to wash. The aura surrounding me is joyful, Costin gives me knowing looks every now and then when my shift ends and I contentedly call a day. I’m starting to think he inherited his father’s observation skills. Mr. Tanase hasn’t return from his hiatus, for what Costin has told me, his mother’s health isn’t anywhere near good, and they’ll come back to see the doctor again if that doesn’t change soon. I hope it does, I can’t imagine the pain Mr. Tanase is going through, seeing the woman he loves losing a fight against death, exhaling what might be her last breath, dying in front of him without him capable of stopping it. The impotence and agony. The resignation. I shake my head and smile at the man that just arrived; these are daily misfortunes of our existence, whether we’re ready to face them or not, they won’t stop. They never do. At seven thirty in the evening, Liana has finished cleaning the tables.

‘ _I have something to tell you, Rob_ ’, she’s leaning against the counter next to the sink, where I’m washing the remaining dishes. It was one of those days in which we don’t get a chance to breathe and I’m honestly dying to leave and pedal like the devil back home. I turn to look at her and frown at the troubled expression darkening her habitual, merry features.

‘ _What is it?_ ’, I ask and she looks down. That’s not good sign. ‘ _Are you alright?_ ’, my tone is concerned and her lips are quivering, like she’s not sure of what to say, like she’s fighting back tears.

‘ _Yes, I think I’m just nervous_ ’, she looks genuinely terrified, afflicted and this behavior is so unlike her that I’m starting to fear that indeed something horrible is happening to her. She takes a deep breath and my eyes meet with hers. ‘ _I never thought this would happen, it just did and I don’t know what– I don’t want to hurt you_ ’, what makes her think that she’s able to do that? She’s not a bad person, and even though we’re close, it’s not enough to cause damage in an emotional or physical level. I’m not sure about the physical part given that I’m asthmatic and a walking sack of clumsiness. It can’t be that awful. ‘ _I’m dating Andrei_ ’. The answer to my inner argument comes out in the form of an unexpected confession that knocks the air out of my lungs. She’s dating that incarnation of a Ken-doll, the guy who asked me out on a date less than a month ago. It’s confusing; she wanted me to accept going on a date with him, he did ask and I not-so-cleverly declined. He went after Liana, making it seem like he had a plan B, and she was the one who accepted. Her annoying insistence was an indication that she liked him? Was it that obvious? Sometimes, feminine logic isn’t that logic to me. I swallow the knot on my throat and count to three.

‘ _I’m glad for you, Liana_ ’, I babble, still processing the information.

‘ _You don’t look glad_ ’, she points out, her tone is sad and I want to slap myself for giving her such a poor and forced reply. I should be glad for her, like any other friend would, but the same bad feeling I had about him has only grown sharper and I’m afraid that I have an actual reason to worry about.

‘ _I’m sorry, it’s just–_ ’, I try to excuse myself and sort out my next words. There’s nothing wrong with her dating Andrei, I’m clearly overreacting. I put on my best, friendlier smile and I let out a chuckle. ‘ _It doesn’t matter, he’s a good guy_ ’. I almost bite my tongue.

‘ _What about you? I don’t know how far did you–_ ’.

‘ _Nothing happened_ ’, I hurry to assure and fight back a grimace at the mere thought of being with some else that isn’t him. Zeus, help me, I can’t be that outrageously corny. I see Liana’s face shinning and it’s impossible not to return her bright expression. ‘ _I’m sure he’ll be good to you_ ’, her cheerfulness explodes into loud laughs and inhuman squeals. She runs towards me and hugs me so tight that I’m sure she’ll broke a few ribs here and there if she doesn’t lose her grip a bit.

‘ _Thanks a lot! You have no idea how important it is to me that you’re okay with it!_ ’, she screeches against my ear. It wouldn’t surprise me if it bleeds.

‘ _Calm down, Liana, it’s not like I’m giving you my blessing for marriage_ ’, I pull back, suddenly alarmed. ‘ _Wait, you’re not marrying him, right?_ ’, she scowls and slaps my arm rather strong.

‘ _Don’t be stupid, of course not!_ ’, and then we laugh. She’s euphoric like I’ve never seen her, yet nausea steals my ability to share the joy that has been brought to her life. I don’t understand what is the bad feeling twisting my stomach or why I can’t shake off the suspicion that Andrei isn’t playing fair.

She manages to distract me from these thoughts. We don’t get into the details of her new relationship, I’m still confused and nervous about her revelation, and our conversation changes the subject to a more usual one. I’m not in condition to think straight and be objective about the matter, what I need is my fingers playing with his tousled strands of hair and his arms and legs tangled with mine on the couch after dinner. I’m rushing out of the café as soon as Liana takes her leave and my feet pedal fast enough to guide me back home. I’m cautious not to prompt myself an asthma attack; he gets sick worried when it happens, and he’ll scold me for being careless. Ever the over-protective boyfriend. _Boyfriend_. The word rumbles inside my head. _Boyfriend_. Is it really truth? Nothing has been settled, just assumed, because what else can I call it? Friends with benefits? Offensive. Friends… just friends? But “just friends” don’t touch each other like we do, you don’t look at “just a friend” like Bucky looks at me, right? What are we now that we are something? We are real, I know, is that simple, yet is not. As surreal as we want it to be, the human mind doesn’t work the same. We have to know where are we standing and it’s as exasperating not to as the physical need I feel for him. The nature of our relationship is a mystery; it can’t be define. I’m unable to name what Bucky is to me because he’s many things at the same time. A man who lives next to me, eats ham and cheese sandwiches with me and brings coffee to my door every single morning. Someone who’s been different persons in a lifetime. War burning inside his eyes and ice covering his hands. The same man who choke me to death and carried me nine floors so I wouldn’t worsen my already hurt ankle. A killer, a ghost, a victim, an equal. We’ve bled, we know pain and suffering; where there are burning scars on his kin, bullet wounds, I wear stab scars, healed, once broken bones. He’s the person holding the waste of my soul with a strength only someone who’s been that broken knows.

And the rush turns into yearning for that part of myself that stayed behind, the one he owns and protects. It’s not another half, I don’t need it to breathe, I can bare the empty seat next to me on Friday nights, the coldness at sunset, I can have a live without it, but the twinge echoing from he back of my mind will always remind me that something’s missing. My Bucky. Bucky’s light and Bucky’s touch. The streets are painted with the steel blue of his eyes, the sky shines with golden stars and my lungs inhale the purple breeze of the night. There are colors everywhere. Our building comes into sight. I’m almost there. Park the bicycle is what it takes. Almost. The staircase is the mace separating our souls. Almost there. Ninth floor, second door to the right. Almost. Open the door. There.

‘Hey’, I greet, a little breathless, a little too excited.

‘Hey’, he turns and I swear his smile is what steals the oxygen left in my lungs. He’s standing by the counter, a pile of sliced baby-tomatoes ready to be put into the bowl next to it, his flesh hand holds a fine knife and he looks absolutely homelike. Worn-out jeans, that black t-shirt that braces the curves of his muscles and shows how well-built he is, tousled hair and stubbled jaw. Just Bucky. I walk in his direction and he puts down the knife, his enchanting smile growing wider. Close enough, my arms snake around his waist, my face buries in his taut chest, his hands roam over the space between my shoulder-blades and his lips place a soft kiss on my forehead. ‘Welcome back’, he whispers and my whole being melts into his. _Welcome back to me_. ‘Busy day?’, I hum in affirmation and he immediately massages my shoulders, drawing small circles with his thumbs, making me relax and rest all my weight against his body. ‘We’re having _salată de roșii_ and _șnițel_ tonight’, oh, I know that tone. He’s spoiling me again. I kiss his collar-bone in an appreciative gesture and pull away enough to look at his cooking work, the smell of fresh cucumber, tomatoes and chicken thick in the air. It surprised me when he insisted on preparing our meals a few days ago, but I was grateful that he offered to do it because, against of what would be expected, Bucky’s an excellent cooker.

‘It smells good’, I praise and he utters a ‘thank you’. He lets go of me and turns to finish cutting the vegetables for the salad. I reach for the plates on the shelves, along with glasses, to prepare the table while dinner is ready. There’s music in the background, Queen’s Greatest Hits cassette plays on the boombox, and Bucky hums “Another One Bites the Dust” almost inaudibly. He brings the bowls of food to the table and we sit down in front of each other. There’s that tiny twist in the corner of his mouth that I’ve noticed him wearing since he came back and I wonder, hope, that I’m the one who’s giving him the peace and safety he gives to me. We eat in silence for some minutes, the comfortable, quiet, awareness of our presences reminds of those first interactions we had what seems lifetimes ago, when even as strangers, there was a harmony flowing in the space between us. ‘I have some interesting news from work’, I begin, making Bucky stop chewing the last bite of chicken from his third plate in a row. He didn’t eat salad, by the way. He straightens up on the chair and swallows before asking.

‘What is it?’. I take a sip of water and then clear my throat, like I’m about to reveal a state secret. Bucky frowns.

‘Liana is dating Andrei’, I say and his frown deepens.

‘Who?’, his totally perplexed expression is hilarious, but my previous concern and suspicion prevent me from laughing at it.

‘A guy who had been hitting on me before, a blonde one, now he’s going out with Liana’, I explain without getting into details of the whole process. I let out a sigh and look down at my half empty plate, trying to clear my mind and understand why am I so disturbed by such a simple thing. It shouldn’t be like this, and it’s definitely not because I felt something for Andrei, the guy made me hyperventilate and run away from him like a decapitated chicken, yet I’m incapable of shaking off the disturbance. ‘I have a bad feeling about him’, I make it explicit.

‘Now I have a bad feeling about him too’, Bucky’s comment is half joking and half stern. I chuckle, because I appreciate his effort to ease off the tension, and it’s funny the idea of him being jealous about Andrei. _Pff_ , Ken-doll doesn’t stand a chance against my Super-Soldier. When my chuckle dies, both our expressions harden.

‘I’m serious, though, if he’s just fooling around, he can hurt her really bad’, pure distress pours out of my mouth.

‘Want me to take a look? Just in case’, he suggests, but I shake my head.

‘Maybe… maybe I’m just overreacting’, I shrug, and I know he doesn’t buy my fake defense. I would never ask him to use his spying skills on Liana, although he’s willing to do it for the sake of my nerves, it wouldn’t be fair for any of them. Before we start to clean up the table, I make an effort to put on an honest smile and ask him: ‘What about you? How was your day?’.

‘Educational’, he says in a not-so-excited tone, cleaning his mouth with his napkin. ‘Been busy with those articles you gave me and tried to figure out this damn thing again’, his right hand travels to the back-pockets of his jeans and takes out his iPod.

A couple of days after we cleaned my apartment, I gave him the iPod I bought for him when he was away as a belated birthday-present. None of us is quite fond of celebrating birthdays or holidays, that’s why there were no surprise parties or special meals. Maybe just extra ice-cream after dinner. He struggled to manage the touch-screen, and preferred not to download apps or games because he said he wasn’t interested in them, and I showed him instead how to download all the music he wanted with my Apple ID. He was worried about the privacy of the device, arguing about it being traceable, but I assured him that it has a high level of security. Still, exploring he tools and learning how to give them a productive use isn’t one of his strengths. I let him on his own as much as I can and he occasionally asks me to help him. Reading is among his normal activities now, I give him new information to read about History, pop-culture, science, art, music, being careful not to confuse him or even worse, trigger one of his episodes. He’s interested and open to learn more every day, sometimes it’s difficult, it frustrates him, but I’m there for him, he knows it and it makes it better for both of us. Another highlight from these past three weeks was the talk about his two-month-journey. He was doubtful, nervous:

_‘I went back to Russia, I– I was looking for information about The Red Room, an experimental department from Hydra. I stopped in Kiev and met this old-woman, Maria, she worked there for several years and she gave me some files, told me to go to Moscow’, he says, eyes down and head ducked. ‘She knew– she knew about this person…’, he trails and his voice falters. He’s not sure about this, about telling me what happened and he’s skipping the parts he doesn’t want me to hear. I respect that, but it makes me wonder why. ‘Her name is Natalia Romanova, The Black Widow, the woman I– I fought with in D.C.’, I know that name. Natasha Romanoff. I read about her in the articles I found on internet during my research. She’s an Avenger. ‘I had dreams about her, but couldn’t figure out what we did back there’, he continues. He dreamed about her, that’s what lingers in my mind. ‘I trained her, and trained with her. She was one of the best and they wanted us to pair up, but we– we failed because we–’. She was yours once, wasn’t she? And they took her away from you, from all the things they took, it was her, her and Steve, the ones you still cling to. The ones you wish you remembered. ‘We had this weird affair, nothing I actually remember, and when they found out, they put me back on ice and wiped out her memories as well’, my heart breaks a little. Hearing him so disoriented and desperate has always done that to me. ‘The files I read, what they did to the girls, the subjects of The Red Room… it’s– it’s sick, it reminded me of what they did to me and–’, he’s unable to keep going. The knot on his throat is audible. ‘I’d like to talk to her, just to ask if she remembers me, us, whatever about that time. I guess I’m asking too much’, he lets out a dry chuckle._

_‘Did you feel something for her?’, the question comes out without warning. My feelings speaking for my mind._

_‘I don’t know’, his answer is honest. ‘We understood each other, somehow, there was empathy, nothing else. I went on looking for her because it felt like it could guide me further to find out more about myself. I needed to know’. You needed to get back something that was stolen. ‘Anyway, I almost got everything I was looking for’, he concludes, sad and resigned._

_We let silence flood the air of the room. We found ourselves sharing a bowl full of plums while cleaning his apartment, we sat down on the couch and here we are, talking about those things that kept us apart for two months, yet bring us closer with every step that we take._

_‘This woman, Maria, did she know who you were?’, my interruption on his meditation makes him flinch._

_‘Yeah, it was kinda creepy. She pointed at me and said I was The Asset, just like that, and maybe it was part of the reason she helped me’, he sighs and leans forward in my direction. ‘I didn’t plan to be away for that long’, he takes one of my hands into his, bringing it up to his face and quietly asking me to cup his jaw. I do it in the next none-existed seconds, forgetting about the woman who stole his dreams and everything she means to him. ‘All I could think of was coming back here, coming back to you’, he looks at me so fiercely, his eyes piercing my soul and thawing the remains of the winter I endured without his cosmic light. I’ve missed him so much too, he’s back and I have to be thankful for it. Natalia. Natasha can wait._

_‘You did’, he kisses my palm and leans even further into my touch. I need him this much too. ‘You’re here’_.

He’s here. And I flashbacked to that moment for longer than I intended. He notices, of course, he’s looking at me with a worried expression. I blink a few times, slowly coming back to my present senses. Bucky still has the iPod on his right hand, the hesitance is clear on his hold and I feel bad for not paying enough attention to this situation. 

‘Let’s work on it, come on, hand it over’, I say, outstretching my arm to reach for the device. He grimaces and it’s my turn to frown. He’s usually excited about the time we dedicate to his technology lessons, and now he seems annoyed about it.

‘It gave me a headache’, he complains and I understand why he’s so reluctant. It’s not the same with me being there to calm his nerves, contrary of the times he tries by himself. I can’t force him to keep working on it if he’s already that irritated, instead, he needs a break from these stuff. 

‘Fine’, I indulge and he smiles, relieved and content. ‘We better hurry to clean up’, he nods. I stand up and he follows, carrying our dirty dishes and bringing them to the sink.

Friday nights were extended to the rest of the weekend, and we’ve watched a bunch of movies he has liked so far; The Chronicles of Narnia, the first one, Despicable Me, Penelope (I still laugh at Bucky’s “what the hell?” when he saw the pig-nose), Monsters Inc., Forest Gump, Pirates of The Caribbean: The Curse of The Black Pearl, that one he liked the most, and he tried to watch Tideland, but couldn’t finish it because, as he said, “was too freaking weird”. Before he left to Russia, we would spend hours at the rooftop, sharing the city at out feet, sharing music and candies. Sharing silence. He would come to my apartment and have dinner with me three, four times a week. I would prepare coffee for two and buy doughnuts for an army; he eats an entire box by himself. Now, when our lives have collided, merged to the core, to spend most of the time together it’s as natural as breathing. I like to think of it as a flowing, yet coordinated set of activities more than a simple routine; I wake up and get dressed, we have breakfast together, at my place or his, he wishes me a good day and then I leave to work. What does he do through out the day? According to him, he wakes up even before me and goes for a morning run, it helps him to clear his mind from dreams, sometimes nightmares, then he stops by a café near our building to get me coffee. While I’m at work, he reads, he takes long walks, goes to the market, the park or cleans his apartment, whatever suits his mood or need, he keeps himself busy. It’s simple, yes, and we’re happy that way. He’s just a man whose life was frozen in an eternal twilight of death and loneliness and I’m an orphan whose life was marked by gunfire and blood. We don’t want more than humble life can offer to us, there are no aspirations, we’re not going to be better persons, I don’t believe we ever were in the first place. There are no extravagances, life-changing trips, no epic love story, just Bucky and just Robin. Ruined humans, like everybody else. 

‘What are we watching tonight?’, he asks once we finish washing and drying the dishes. I let the small towel in the sink and turn to the bed-living-improvised-cinema-room, looking for the movie box with narrowed eyes. I spot it right above the TV and when I’m about to grab the bowls for the ice-cream, I realize that I didn’t answer to Bucky; he’s looking at me, expectantly and full of honest curiosity. I can’t help but smile.

‘I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I’ve come to the conclusion that you are ready for Star Wars’, I proudly reveal.

‘The space one?’, he takes out the ice-cream from the freezer while I grab a couple of bowls and spoons from the shelves and we walk towards the bed to prepare our seats. 

‘Exactly, we’re watching the old trilogy first’, we sit next to each other, closer every time. I give him more cushions and pillows because he hates thick surfaces. I noticed not long ago, actually, that Bucky prefers to sit on the couch than a chair, and while the floor makes his muscles tense, the bed soothes them. Tonight, his ritual is no different; he gathers at least five of them, fluffs them and then practically throws himself over them. His legs are half sprawled on the floor and other half of his body rests on his elbows, like a comfy, Persian cat. I hand him his chocolate chips ice-cream and a spoon, crawling to the TV to put on the movie.

‘Okay, bring it up’, I chuckle and take my place by his side. One of my knees brushes against his fingers, and sensing the heat emanating from me, he strokes ever so lightly the craving surface. Every time Bucky touches me, my heart is about to beat out of my chest, I see starlights and suns and my pores are filled by that steel blue color of his eyes. Bucky’s fingers tracing the curves of my face and Bucky’s whispers quickening the pace of my breathing. The way he looks at me, adoration and joy heavy on his gaze, the way he releases a breath whenever I walk in the room and how bright is the light pouring out of his soul. My entire being responds to him with the same ferocity and power of a lightning. I have to shake my head again to clear my mind and provide the screen my full attention.

I have no shame nor control over my excitement when the opening crawl appears on the screen. I let out an inhuman squeal that makes Bucky turn his head to me, grinning, amusement and derision hanging from the twists of his mouth. “ _A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…_ ”. Oh, boy. I can’t remember the last time I saw Star Wars, I bet it’s been years, and although it brings some nostalgic stirs in my memory, there are happier ones. The music, (thanks God for John Williams and Binary Sunset), the emblematic scenarios, customs and sounds, it’s impossible not to enjoy them to the fullest. I lose Bucky from that moment on. It’s like I don’t exist at all. He’s been hypnotized by the movie, he doesn’t move a single finger, not even a hair from his head, and his eyes are sparkling diamonds in the middle of the dark, glued to the images playing in front of him. His mouth falls in awe when the space-ship battles begin, just like he did with Back to The Future, he smiles and frowns when something in particular bothers him. I don’t’ know if I want to keep watching the movie because Bucky’s face is far more delightful, his reactions are so transparent that they put to shame everything else. At the end of the movie, I look at him in deep expectancy, hoping to find astonishment painting his beautiful features. 

‘So?’, my sudden question startles him, breaking the spell he was under.

‘So?’, he repeats. ‘So awesome!’, he jumps off the bed and his whole face lightens up again with wonder. ‘This is the best movie I’ve ever seen in my life! The ships were so cool and the space battles and the Jedi’s super powers!’, he announces and _performs_ the movements from the light-saber-duel’s choreographies; he moves his wrists like the Jedi, imaginary holding the light-saber and actual sounds come out of his mouth. I’m in shock. I’ve never seen him this excited and amazed by a movie and I let out a pure, loud laugh, sharing his enjoyment. ‘Han Solo is awesome though, Jedi or not, he sure gets to kick some asses’, he sits back down and looks at me with a huge smile playing on his mouth. I love cheery Bucky. ‘I want to be the Jedi with the red laser-blade’.

‘That’s Darth Vader, but he’s on the dark side, a Lord Sith’, I explain. ‘They only have red ones’, he hums, analyzing what I said while the end credits are rolling and the music plays in the background. He loves to tell me what he thinks of what he sees. Maybe that’s his favorite part, and mine too.

‘Does that mean that I can’t have a blue laser-blade, like Obi-Wan?’, his brows are furrowed and his tone is upset. He keeps surprising me tonight, showing such sincere emotions to me, bare for me to read and appreciate. A soft exposure flashes from the inside of his eyes and I realize that it would take a slight movement forward to caress his stubbled jay and run my fingertips over the skin of his cheek. I sigh, discouraged.

‘Light-saber, and no, sadly no’, I make a discreet correction, and he utters the term to remember it rightly. I take out the movie from the DVD player and Bucky helps me to set everything back in place.

‘What’s your favorite character?’, he asks from the kitchen. He’s washing the bowls, his head turned in my direction with plain interest written on his face. 

‘I would say it’s Darth Vader too, and Yoda, another character from the next movie’.

‘Can we watch it now? If you’re not tired’, he’s genuinely eager to go on with the trilogy. I’m not tired, but it’s already eleven and I have to be up at six-thirty to get in time for work. After the incident three weeks ago, I took a whole week off to recover and skipping tomorrow’s shift would feel like I’d be abusing Costin’s generosity… again.

‘Tomorrow, I promise’, responsible-adult Robin speaking for the clingy girl who wants to spend more time with her boyfriend. I feel old and boring. Bucky nods, his shoulders down, disappointed, something that sends me into an immediate frenzy to fix it. He turns towards the door, his eyes meeting mine to say good-night. ‘I’ll be free in the evening, you feel like going out?’, I suggest, hopeful, an excuse to see him for a few more seconds, a wish to enrich the infinite instants by his side.

‘Sure, what do you have in mind?’, the fervor is gone. He gives a gentle smile, but his eyes are no longer shining with joy and his expression is calmer. 

‘Well, nothing yet’, I look down, embarrassed. Going to the park would be nice, we haven’t been there since before he left, and the sight of the gardens at spring is lovely. Perhaps, we should go somewhere else, out of the city. It’s always complicated to choose a place where Bucky feels comfortable, museums and malls are out of question, they’re crowded and have lots of vigilance. An inconvenience. I see his footsteps approach to me, I feel his flesh hand cup my jaw and lift my head up to look at him; there can’t be blue eyes like his. How could they be? Most people have one kind of blue on their eyes, yet his are like the tender sunrays at sunrise, or the brightest day of Italy at midday, the warmth of the ocean at sunset and the millions of galaxies of the space at night. Shape shifting blue. ‘I’ll sleep on it and let you know in the morning before I go, okay?’, I finally tell him, mesmerized by his gaze. He nods and leans to place a loving kiss on my blushing cheek, taking me in his arms.

‘Good night’, he whispers against my ear, his breath getting lost into my hair.

‘Good night’, he pulls back and I smile. I kiss his jaw for the last time and he walks out of my apartment. My knees are week, every beat of my heart fills the air like drums, every piece of soul goes after him, calls for him, begs for him to cradle and protect.

I go straight to bed, removing my uniform and putting on my normal pajamas, no longer the winter clothes. It’s been warmer these days, summer creeping its way through the months passing by, and sleeping with more layers of sheets and clothes has become unnecessary. Already under the blankets, I take out the music box Bucky gave me from under my pillows; we haven’t figured out how it works, it seems that a key is missing and he says that it wasn’t there when he got the music box. It helps me to sleep, though, its coldness is as familiar as Bucky’s and I trace the patterns on the surface the same way I do with Bucky’s skin. It’s beyond comforting. The normal tiredness of the day guides my mind to a peaceful place where clouds and stars lulls me to a surreal slumber without thoughts, nightmares, demons and ghosts. It’s been like this since I know he’s there to catch me if I fall, the security his presence provides me is stronger than the memory of the times he’s hurt me; I’ve learned how to forgive him, understand the source his violent muscles and the screams from his past. They haunt him, torment his already troubled spirit. I can’t but offer him my hand to walk through the darkness by his side as he holds mine next to his heart, trusting me with everything he is an everything he’s not. That’s what we do, that’s us, damaged and real. As soon as the sunlight pours out of my window, my eyes flutter open to welcome another day in this city and I hear Bucky arriving early from his morning run. He takes his time to clean himself while I get ready, prepare breakfast and knock at his door. It’s going to be peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, sliced apples with some plums for Bucky, coffee and milk. Perfect. The brightest star of all greets me with its light, it’s blinding and warm and mine. 

‘I came up with an idea for today’, he begins, taking another sandwich from the tray. I love to see him eat and enjoy his food; I’ve been trying to encourage him to get enough nutrition, otherwise, I convinced him, it could have a side effect on his metabolism that would stunt both his immune and muscular system. Of course he didn’t buy it completely, the serum enhanced his body in ways that not even him knows, and the lack of food in periodically lapses of time only serves as an anesthetic, I suppose. Now it’s different, he doesn’t hold back when it comes to eating, and I wouldn’t dare to stop him; it fills me with immense happiness. I raise my eyebrows at him, surprised and thankful.

‘Great, because my brain died on me last night and couldn’t think of something’, I confess and he smiles, but doesn’t say anything else. He looks at me with a playful expression I rarely have seen before, it sends waves and waves of tickling sparkles all over my chest. ‘So, what’s it gonna be?’, I manage to ask in a slightly out-of-breath tone.

‘It’s a surprise’, he teases and keeps eating. The moment I’m about to speak again, he stands up and grabs the dirty dishes to take them to the sink, leaving me confused. Bucky hasn’t done this, prepare a surprise for me, he took the time to think about something that we can do together later this afternoon, and to say that I’m dying to know what his plan is wouldn’t be an exaggeration. It’s seven-thirty by the time I’m walking out of the apartment, purse hanging from my shoulder and helmet being secured around my head. Bucky escorts me to the door, ever the gentleman, and leans to kiss my cheek with such delicacy, it makes my spine tremble. ‘Have a good day’, his hot breath fans over the skin of my neck. His smile grows wider, aware of my incapacity to reply, and I nod, turning around, flustered, my heart mere beats away from exploding inside my ribcage.

Thoughts about those lips invade the streets, they’re pained orange, lilac clouds stain the sky and the air smells like fresh, rosy sea-foam. Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s mouth, Bucky’s voice. He’s driving me crazy and he does absolutely nothing. The energy emanating from his body does certain things to me; crave for his touch, closer, until his lips and fingertips knock the sense out of my skull and I feel nothing but his velvety caress and his blue gaze. I won’t make it alive if I keep thinking about him this way. Thanks God the café is empty when I arrive, it would be harder to clear my mind if Liana suddenly pops out of the bathroom to do what she does best: exasperate me. I park the bicycle next to the back door of the kitchen, the safest place I could find, walk inside to start today’s work and leave as early as I can. Liana arrives not longer after, jumping like a rabbit towards me and hugging me like she always does. We settle into the routine, she takes the orders, I bring them; she brings the orders, I take them. Costin collects the money. I like to think of us as a team work, an organized squad that make people happy with coffee, pies and cakes: The Three Coffeteers. I’m sure Liana would roll on the floor, laughing hysterically at my silly nickname. 

Morning turns into midday and midday soon becomes afternoon. Bucky’s waiting for me. I can already hear his voice, saying “Welcome back”, and decode the meaning underneath those words; I can already breathe in his essence and feel the strength of his muscles around my shoulders. I must hurry, I need to close the last customer’s bill, put on my helmet, climb on the bicycle and let the thought of his eyes guide my feet back home. Soon. It’s sooner by the second. Close and leave. So soon.

‘ _Who is he?_ ’, Liana scares the life out of me. In any other scenario, I would have jumped backwards, letting out a loud squeal or throw something at the person responsible for the murder attempt against my poor, fragile nerves, however, we’re standing over the counter, surrounded by, at least, fifteen customers. My reaction is less effusive, and Liana’s sudden question just steals a sharp gasp from me. I look at her without holding back my anger and she shamelessly ignores it.

‘ _What is wrong with you?_ ’, I demand, my voice rising until we catch Costin’s attention.

‘ _You’re seeing someone_ ’, she narrows her eyes suspiciously. Costin smiles.

‘ _W–?_ ’, I start, but shut my mouth immediately; she caught me, and she’s not letting me go that easily. Bucky’s waiting for me. ‘ _I have no idea what you’re talking about_ ’, I turn on my heels and walk towards the lockers without answering her. I’m aware of my rudeness and I feel bad about not telling her. I take out my helmet and purse, ready to leave, when Liana reappears in front of me with a determined look on her rounded face.

‘ _Spit it out_ ’, she insists and my nerves leave me speechless. She truly suspects that I’m dating someone, and the main question is why. There has been no change in my behavior, as far as I’m concerned, I’m the same, maybe a little happier, maybe a little eager to go, yet all the while the same, so what’s making her think that a guy is the reason for it? I don’t deny it, but I’m not ready to share that part of my life with her, and it’s sad because I realize now that I don’t share much for that matter, and she’s supposed to be my friend. She can know these things, she would understand. Right, she would absolutely understand that I’m dating a ninety-something, brainwashed former assassin with PTSD, a metal arm and memory loss. Normal best friend secrets. I sigh, frustrated and sad.

‘ _There’s nothing to spit out_ ’, I finally say and she scoffs.

‘ _I sense the power of friendship isn’t mutual here_ ’, annoyance is palpable in her humorous comment. ‘ _Fine, keep it to yourself_ ’, she turns around and the guilt starts to flood my insides. I feel terrible for not being honest with her… but I can’t bring myself to tell her.

We part ways with a tense atmosphere around us. She’s mad at me, I can tell by her cold hug at the bus stop and her forced smile when she waves her good-bye from the vehicle. Maybe this is something I need to work out with her as Bucky did with me, day by day, opening myself to her, learning how to trust her completely. Bucky’s still waiting for me. The fever running through my veins commands my limbs to move faster, run back where I belong, where I must go back to. Bucky’s smile under the threshold of his door, his hand taking mine, warm and familiar, his arms cradling me against his chest. It lightens up my whole life, knowing there’s not just someone waiting for me at a place, that it’s _him_ who’s waiting for me at _our_ home, brings a peace and happiness to my soul I never imagined feeling. We’re not alone anymore, as he said, we don’t have to. I find myself facing him within seconds, among ages, I barely have the memory of me knocking at this door, of him opening it, and it becomes real when he smiles.

‘Welcome back’, I swear I’m melting. I’m entirely his now, he’s mine, he’s with me and one else. He kisses my cheek and says: ‘I’ll wait for you to change’. He knows that I’m not quite fond of the café’s uniform, still, I can tell it’s not all that he means. I look down at him and notice that he’s wearing a light-blue button-down shirt that’s maybe a little small for him, tucked in, his dark jeans, a denim jacket that I don’t know where did he get from, and black shoes. Not a formal outfit, but definitely different from what he’s used to wear. Why is he dressing like that? Is this a special occasion? And in the name of all handsomeness, why is he trying to kill me looking this good? I feel a whimper get stuck in the back of my throat.

‘Okay’, I kiss his jaw and head to my apartment, beyond confused.

‘And bring your jacket’, he calls from his door. ‘Please’, I nod and walk in to the room to get ready. Change. Proper clothes. Jacket. I can do that. I guess I can without daydreaming about how he looks. I hurry to my closet and open it to look for something that doesn’t make me appear that lame by his side, and suddenly I’m self-conscious and I’m panicking. What am I supposed to wear? Shorts? Jeans? Do I have skirts? Blouse or a simple shirt? Sleeves or straps? Why boots or sneakers are my only option? Why does it worry me so much if I don’t look as good as Bucky? I’m not going on a date, am I? Zeus, help this poor, unfortunate soul. I seriously consider the yellow dress from the Spring Coffee Day, but decide against it because it might be not appropriate. My eyes travel to the farthest corner of the closet and spot a spark of blue fabric; Liev’s birthday gift. No. I won’t ever use that thing. I rather go in pajamas. I ponder, trying to come up with a nice outfit; nothing seems good enough. I start to feel anxious, clock’s ticking, Bucky’s still waiting for me and I catch a glimpse of something with flowers. That dress. I forgot I had it, that it existed. I bought it in the Flohmarkt when I was in Hamburg, I don’t know why liked it, I simply wanted to have it. I suppose a white dress with a pink flowers and green leaves pattern attracts anyone. It might serve was well. I take it out along with my military-green jacket and undress, my hands making a quick work on the uniform, leaving my boots on because what is there to lose anyways. Thanks Zeus the dress still fits me, and although I’m not sure about the length and the amount of skin on display, I walk out of the room with my purse and my jacket hanging from one arm. Bucky is already outside, looking down at his iPod, a backpack on his shoulder and helmet on hand. He lifts his head when he hears me approaching.

‘Did you–?’, he stops mid-sentence, his blue gaze settles upon me, and we paralyze. My breath hitched on my throat, my blood is burning my veins and all I see and feel is Bucky. His eyes travel through my entire figure, up and down my body, and there’s no the slightest hint of lust or desire; it’s pure awe. My cheeks are hot, my legs are fighting back the urge to run and hide inside. He’s making me flustered, awkward, and completely proud at the same time because I got this reaction from him. I’ve never been aware of the importance of what I’m wearing, not for lack of vanity, but for the lack of attention. There weren’t compliments from my family, not even my parents, when I made an extra effort with my appearance, men told me I was pretty, and women looked at me in both disdain and spite. Yet now, Bucky is looking at me with eyes full of reverence, like I’m shining, like I’m distant and unreachable. He’s looking at me like I’m not real and, somehow, it makes me feel more real than ever. ‘You look… not that comfortable– I mean, you look good, really good, but I– I’m not sure if–’. Good? Really good?

‘I’ll be alright’, I assure him, trying to hide the sting of disappointment in my voice, and he nods. ‘Anything else we might need?’, I ask before I lock my door.

‘I already took care of it’, he gestures his backpack and clears his throat. ‘Let’s go’. He’s nervous by my side on our way downstairs, he avoids looking at me, and my growing insecurity worsen our case. He liked the dress, didn’t he? I mean, he said that I looked really good. Not nice, not pretty. Really good. What does that mean? Why is it so important that he thinks is more than good? When girls dress-up on dates, is it because they want to look pretty, feel pretty, or to convince their date that they are? What’s the whole point? Oh, boy. I’m ranting mentally, making a big deal out of nothing. It’s not until we reach the parking lot that I speak again.

‘Can I know now where are we going?’, I ask, eyes are down and hands getting sweaty. Bucky doesn’t answer right away and we put on our helmets. When I look up, he shakes his head, smiling playfully, all sings of discomfort gone, and hands me the backpack. What just happened? I frown, but take it to hang it on my shoulders. ‘Can I know what’s in here?’, I gesture the backpack and he shakes his head again, letting out a chuckle.

‘No, it’ll ruin the surprise’, he teases, a lop-sided smile taking my breath way. He’s trying to kill me, I’m sure now. We climb on the bicycle and I instinctively wrap my arms around his stomach. ‘Ready?’, he whispers, excitement as clear as a day in his soft tone, and I nod, burying my head in the place between his shoulder-blades as he starts to move out of the building, heading north.

The rush, the intimacy, the freedom. Nothing has changed since that first time we rode together. Buildings are turned into a multicolor blur and the sky is an unlimited canvas, the air that smashes against my face makes me hyperaware of my surroundings and how wonderful it feels to be pressed against him like this. It smells like summer, the city and Bucky. It’s him. It’s all him. I’m not ashamed of the loud laugh that escapes my lips and reproduces on Bucky’s, his chest vibrating with such charming melody. He goes faster and faster, I can feel his thrill thought the layers of clothes barely separating us, the muscles of his abdomen contracting, his strength and his warmth; he’s shining as bright as the sun. The brightest star of all. I don’t know where are we going, and I don’t care as long as he lets me follow him and stay with him. Stay with him forever. I breath him in; cotton and soap and something entirely his. Nature boy. I look up to see where are we and, for one second, I mistake the familiarity of the trees with _The Cișmigiu Lake_ , then I remember we were heading north and going forward, looking into the details, this is not where I suspected he’d take us. It’s _The Herăstrău Park_ , the biggest one in the city. I have been here twice since I live in Bucharest, both on my own. Alone in space and time. Not anymore.

Everything is bright green, the flowers stand proud and the waves on the water move in synch with the gentle breeze blowing, making the top of the trees dance as well in an impossible slow rhythm. Colors, colors everywhere. Bucky keeps going, further away from the main spots where it’s crowded, leading us to the very north side of the park. What is his plan? The nervousness turns into anticipation, I have no clue of where exactly he’s taking us, and when I’m about to ask him, he anticipates my intentions.

‘Close your eyes for a second, please?’, his request is tender, but I pick up a trace of command between the lines. I comply without question; I trust him, and if he needs me to close my eyes, I do. That simple. I sense we start to slow down until we stop completely. ‘Don’t let go of me’, Bucky maneuvers to climb down the bicycle and leave me sitting steady, waiting for more instructions. My heart is pounding against my chest and my lugs are trying their best not to explode. I’m dizzy, fervent, he’s taking too long and I hate. He takes my hand and helps me down the bicycle, his hold never faltering, my limbs responding to the familiar touch. ‘Open your eyes, Robin’, he whispers and I open my eyes. That simple. I have to blink a few times to adjust to the daylight, everything is so vivid, the sky, the sun and Bucky himself, that they blind me for a moment. But when my vision clears and I can finally see what’s in front of me, I inhale sharply; the sight of the lake is naked beauty, translucent, the water is diamond clean and sparkling with the touch of the sunrays. This is Bucky surprise, peace, nature and us. It makes my heart swell, filled by awe and love. ‘I don’t– I don’t know how dating works these days, but I thought it would be nice to spice things up and this place seemed like a good idea’. The image freezes. One word echoes at the end, it ricochets inside my head. ‘I brought our favorites’, Bucky gestures the backpack I didn’t notice him removing from my shoulders, showing me the inside full of sandwiches and plums. I don’t listen to him anymore, the word keeps messing with my thoughts and wrecks the instant. ‘What you do you think?’, he’s nervous now, aware of my silence. I have to tell him, now. But how can I make it sound less melodramatic that it is to me?

‘You said dating’, I find myself saying out-loud and his weak smile cracks.

‘What?’, he’s perplexed, hurt. God, I’m being unfair to him, and so, so stupid.

‘You said dating’, I repeat. A thick silence follows, I erased the magic that embraced us, and apparently, I’m not done. ‘I didn’t know we were, I mean, of course we are, but I don’t know what– what kind of relationship we have’, I jabber, nothing making sense at the same time that I’m speaking for a rational concern. ‘We haven’t clear things out yet, and it feels like we’re– we’re avoiding it’

If I think through it, it shouldn’t affect me that much, the thing is that it does, and keeping my insecurity from him isn’t doing good to any of us. I let out a sigh of frustration at my own ridiculousness, waiting for Bucky’s desperate reply. His eyes turned sad, looking anywhere but me, like he’s ashamed and lost. It’s worse than the reaction I was hoping for.

‘I’m sorry, I just– I don’t intentionally avoid it, believe me, but this stuff, relationships and dates, emotions, I don’t know how to handle them. I’m afraid that I’ll do something wrong that’ll hurt you and I can’t–’, he sounds vulnerable. Then it really hits me, how unthoughtful I’ve been; this is not about me, how I feel, it’s about how we feel, together. Yes, this is new for me, I’m walking on unstable ground, but for Bucky is entirely unknown, aloof. I didn’t understand what it meant to him to be exposed at a sentimental level, even to me. I really am stupid. ‘Please, never doubt that I–’, I don’t doubt him. I couldn’t, it’s the world around us that I doubt. He clears his throat and lifts his head to look at me. ‘What I’m trying to say is that yes, I think of us as in a couple, together, in a romantic way’, I hear him curse under his breath. Head ducked. ‘I couldn’t quite put my finger on it’, he chuckles dryly.

‘Is that why you don’t kiss me, like, real kiss me?’, I ask, all too shy. Bucky snaps his head up and starts rambling, cheeks as red as a tomato.

‘I– I thought that you– you would do it when– if you wanted to– when you’re ready to– I haven’t had a date since before the war, maybe I forgot know how to properly treat a dame– a woman– damn it’. At any other scenario, this would be hilarious and I would be smiling from ear to ear. He seems so distressed that I have to stop my hand from slapping myself. Stupid. ‘I can’t just go at it with you and don’t think that I don’t want to kiss you, I just–’, he explains and grimaces, not satisfied with his choice of words. ‘Well, fuck’, and just like that, he takes two long strides towards me, cups my face ever so gently and presses his lips against mine.

I swear I hear the choir of the angels ringing on my ears. I close my eyes slowly and drown in the taste of his mouth, something between plums and fresh water. He wraps his arms around me, both of his hands shielding me from the world, and I place mine on his chest, fisting his shirt to pull him closer to me. Our lips move like the waves of the lake, they’re deep and smooth. His hair calls for my fingers to get lost in their silky strands, it’s screaming, begging for them, and they indulge its need, unable to suppress the instinct. I don’t know how he manages to kneel on the floor with me clinging like a monkey to him, and lay us on the grass. My legs let one of his nest between them and my whole body softens, submitting to him. His gloved hands travel up and down my arms, creating friction on my skin, and I hear the thudding of his heart fill the air we’re not even trying to breathe. It’s so different from our first kiss, still it burns with the same compassionate fire. It’s the safest place on Earth, this is where we belong; his lips on mine, my fingers on his hair and our souls merged in one being, never to be separated. I love that he’s not hesitant nor afraid to find his own way in the map we’re tracing before us, I love that I’m the one who’s exploring it with him and I love that he feels that strong and sheltered.

‘I’m sorry I ruined the surprise’, I mumble, my voice trembling with guilt. ‘I’m sorry’, he shushes me.

‘No, no, no, you didn’t ruin it, I promise’, and silences me with yet another kiss. He kisses me and kisses me until I feel like we’re spinning in the infinity, surrounded by starlight and thousands of Milky Ways. Although every one of our encounters is profound and unhurried, I feel the slightest twinge of innocence in Bucky’s movements. It’s sweet, it reminds me that this is as pure as new and that we share the inexperience. He pulls apart and I whine, making him chuckle and gaze down at me with the very stars twinkling in his half-lidded eyes.

‘I love it’, I say, way too breathless and flustered. I cup his stubbled jaw and he leans into my touch. ‘All of this, what you did, thank you’, his answer is a kiss to my palm. I shudder. Is it possible to feel his happy? I may not be thinking straight, but I’m diving into joy and Bucky is the reason I feel that way. I chuckle as well and peck his nose. ‘Come on, I’m starving’, I announce, the emptiness of my stomach interrupting my current state of bliss.

‘Yes, ma’am’.

We straighten up, Bucky takes a small square-tablecloth out of the backpack and spreads it in front of us in order to put our food on it; he’s incredibly precautious. I don’t know where this creativity is coming from, I never imagined he could pay such attention to details and it makes me feel bad for assuming that he wasn’t capable of planning an evening out for the two of us. I keep forgetting that it’s that simple. Our magical nights are every single one we get to say “good night” to each other, a bouquet of flowers that will rot within days has no comparison with a park that will last a full season instead, and no restaurant could ever beat Bucky’s handmade ham and cheese sandwiches, or pancakes, because he knows exactly how I like them. Maybe, what makes it exponentially more special is the fact that he does all these things for me, that the initiative is his and somehow, it’s helping him to let go of his own terrors. I’m everything he has to rely on, our relationship is about trust and caring, understanding, challenge, and I was unfair to ask more that he can give me. I broke my promise, I told him I would accept that little he had to give, and I hurt him the moment I forgot it. Bucky’s fingers brush my arm to get my attention back to our date. 

His face is calm while we eat, unaware of my troubled mind, until I notice he’s eating with his gloves on. Not even before he left, he was comfortable showing much of his skin around me, covering his metal arm completely, except for the time he attacked me, besides that, Bucky’s always wearing gloves, jackets or long-sleeved shirts. It passed unnoticed during winter given the low temperatures, now, however, it’s warmer, not necessarily hot, but it’s unusual to wear gloves at this time of the year. If I ask him to take them off, he’ll be reluctant, I’ll ask again and he will answer with another question, then I’ll ask one last time and he will end up refusing. There’s one way to do this.

‘Take them off’, I catch off guard while he was taking a sip of orange juice. My demand earns a frown from him and makes him put down the bottle. ‘Take them off’, I repeat and take both of his hands. He doesn’t move an inch and takes a sharp intake of air. ‘Take them off’, my request is gentler, yet not enough to calm him. When I begin to slide down the thick fabric, he stops my fingers with a swift motion; that doesn’t stop me. Our gazes are locked, the tension building between our bodies grows with each breath and only the soft circles I draw on his still covered skin are able to dissipate his fear. I synchronize my heartbeats with his, my breathing and adjust my position to face him, keeling centimeters away in front of him. ‘Please’, I beg. No answer. His jaw tenses and, for a moment, I think he got mad at me, but surprises me when removes his hands from mine, allowing me to continue my previous motions. I run my fingers through the flesh and the metal at the same time as I remove the gloves. Once free, I move closer until our noses are brushing, trying to assure him that he remains safe with me. I recall those first days of winter, we were outside in our balconies, I said “ _I don't want you to be near me_ ”, and I close my eyes, the sting of the words too much to remember. I lift my right hand, hold it open to him like I did back then, like the day he returned, and he understands what I’m asking from him. His shoulders shake with anxiety, pleading blue irises piercing my heart, but I can’t back down now, so I lean forward and grab his metal hand. ‘I want you to touch my skin any time you want’, I whisper against his ear; he shudders and tries to pull away. My grasp tightens. We refuse to move for never-ending seconds, we’re fighting equally strong, none of us willing to let go. ‘ _Pozhaluysta, moya yarkaya zvezda vsekh_ ’, this is my last try, if he doesn’t respond, I’ll let go, because I wouldn’t dare to force him to do anything he doesn’t want. Bucky’s hand moves when I’m about to give up. He laces his metal fingers through mine and lifts our hands, palm to palm, to whole our secret vow. The metallic surface feels cold in contrast with mine, a strange, yet fascinating kind of cold, it’s so real that I almost forget the pain it represents to him. It’s not just I want him to see himself as I see him, I want to show him that we are the same, and maybe, one day, make him forget. ‘If we bind it up, you’d be more comfortable when we’re outside’, I suggest, barely audible.

‘You’re so good to me, little bird’, he brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. ‘And you look lovely on that dress’, then place a chaste kiss on my lips. Zeus, I’m not going to make it alive if he keeps doing that. He brushes his nose against my cheek and pulls me to sit between his open legs, resting his chin on my shoulder. This is the kind of contact that will guarantee me a ticket straight to heaven. Bucky hands me the jelly-beans and with a not-so-content smile on his face; he rather have ice-cream. Cookies and cream, to be exact. ‘Damn, I forgot about–’, he mutters and takes out his iPod and the speakers. “The Pill”. I hear Liana’s voice correcting me. Contrary of what I expected when I introduced him to The Beatles, he didn’t like them that much, though he does like them, so it’s odd that he chose them to play while we eat dessert. ‘How was work today?’, he asks, nipping at a peach.

‘Monotonously tolerable’, I admit. The life of a waitress isn’t that exciting at work, that’s why I have Bucky to awake my world, like a devastating earthquake. Maybe that’s not a good metaphor. ‘Liana’s sure I’m dating someone’, ugh, the images of her angry expression make me grunt and he looks at me with concern. I don’t need to calm him; he realizes how complicated is the situation. ‘I’m dead worried ‘cause she’ll be bombarding me with questions, and what if she asks too much about you? There’s no way I’m telling her and I honestly don’t know how to stand the whole interrogation. She gets really creepy, she’ll follow me home, spy on me, God knows what else and–’.

I never get to finish the sentence for Bucky turns my head to the side and is kissing me already. Oh, boy. I think he’s found a clean, and very welcome way to get anything he wants from me, even silence. I’m pretty much doomed.

‘If I only knew this would keep you from ranting before’, yeah, thank you for figuring it out for me. His flesh fingers outline my jaw while the metal ones hold me close to his front. I lean forward to kiss him several more times, nothing more than quiet pecks. He pulls away just enough to look at me from a better angle, straight to my eyes, his fingers playing with my hair now. ‘I’m not saying that we shouldn’t be careful about it, but if you trust her that much, then I guess it’s okay’.

‘But what if she asks something I can’t answer?’.

‘Then you lie’, we both grimace at the idea. He knows that Liana is an important part of my life and it doesn’t matter how much I complain about her (more often than not), she’s the closest I have to a friend. A girl friend, I remind myself. ‘I know it ain’t playing nice, but we don’t have the luxury to take any risk’, I nod, looking down, wishing we had an option, at least on this. ‘I’m sorry I’m putting you in this position’. I want to say he’s not to be blamed for it, that it’s me who has to take the reigns and talk to Liana, and yet, I lack the strength to face my own problems. I’m running away from them. ‘We’ll figure out something, don’t worry about it now’, I hear him whisper to the side of my head and his words give me back some of the peace that was stolen by Liana’s thought.

Bucky’s arms tighten around me and I lay limply against him, letting his warmth and the fanning of his breath over my neck evaporate the stress. Images of that day we went to The Cișmigiu Lake start to flood my mind; our ride to the lake, walking through the gardens, the picture I took him, the picture he took me making it company, both guarded in the depths of my most beloved belongings, and the first kiss I placed to his cheek. It seems that two months apart have changed certain aspects of our interactions outdoors and indoors because he’s obviously more affectionate, chatty, and I’d dare to say jokey. I’m the none-stop talker out of us, yes, but we’ve been working on the development of his self-trust and I’ve tried to encourage him to come out of his cocoon. I want him to see the world with me and not be afraid of it. He’s currently eating the second food-container of fruit and I chuckle at the sight of him so relaxed and satisfied.

‘You did like them, didn’t you?’, my question brings him out of his eating-plums-induced trance. We’re now sitting next to each other; it’s romantic, but also uncomfortable to sit like we were for more than an hour.

‘You said they’re good for memory’, he says and shrugs. I frown and can’t help to elaborate on his answer.

‘How’s that going?’. He stiffens by my side and puts down his apple-slice. 

‘It’s a mess’, he acknowledges and smiles weakly at me. ‘I haven’t had an episode, so I guess that’s a win’, a heavy, resigned sight escapes his mouth. ‘That doesn’t mean they’ll stop, or the nightmares, and though I’m getting used to them, the nightmares I mean, they don’t say much’.

I still hear his whimpers and muffled shouts in the middle of the night. His pacing around the apartment and his door closing behind him when it’s too much. That’s the subject he does avoid, whenever I ask him something remotely related to it, he changes the subject. I don’t press on the matter because I’ve had a hard time figuring out what’s the best way to help him, just to conclude there’s still any that doesn’t involve us getting hurt. He’s told me that activities such as doing sweeps through the city, working out three, four hours a day or doing long walks in the woods help him with the anxiety and it’s the best solution we have for now; to let him deal with it the way he feels better. That means not getting involved if he doesn’t allow me to, so the one solution left I could think of is completely safe and might help him as much as physical exhaustion.

‘Write them down’, I say after a prolonged pause, his head turning to me. He was gazing off into the distance, like that evening at the lake, and I wish I had my camera to immortalize the nature boy again. Now, the stars twinkling in his eyes have died leaving them empty and dark. ‘Your dreams, your nightmares, whatever you remember, get it out of your system’, I see his jaw clench and his hands turn into fists. ‘Or you can talk to me about’, it’s unnecessary to say it, but I must try to make him understand that he’s safe with me, that he can stay. 

‘I know, it’s just–’, he sighs, tired. ‘I wish it was easier’, and exasperated. I cup his jaw and guide his lips to mine in a reassuring kiss, pouring my hope and love to soothe away his distress. And I also wish it was enough. He kisses me back easily, making up for the last three weeks we didn’t, his arms cradling me against his chest and my fingers finding their way into his hair with the same fluidity. The rhythm is slow, loving, the precise amount of pressure and the mildest twirling of our tongues, the beat of our hearts and our quickening breathing is everything I feel. Bucky is everything I feel. We pull away when it becomes too much, when a single look would tear apart the control we pretend we have, then we wear parallel smiles, unable to completely tear apart from each other. He adjusts our bodies to lay on the grass, I rest my head on his chest and he brings my left up to place it across his stomach, the cold metal of his fingers drawing circles over the exposed skin of my knee.

‘I see you’ve improved with the iPod’, I compliment. Chuck Berry plays You Never Can Tell and I think maybe it’s time that I introduce him to the amazing 80’s rock and roll. 

‘Yeah, took me some time to synchronize it with the speaker’, he admits and takes a deep breath, as if just by remembering he could feel the frustration all over again.

‘I’m proud of you’, I tap his abdomen to emphasize my praise to his effort and success. ‘We both need to catch up with few things from this century, we gotta go heavy on the internet search too’, my comment earns I grown from him that vibrates though his chest. 

‘Whatever that doesn’t involve Justin Bieber, I’m all in’, I laugh loudly at his reply, and when I ask him why, he says that it has to do something with his face being “puncheable”.

We stay in the lake until the sky turns lilac and the evening star announces the time to get back home. Contrary of what I expected when I met him, Bucky’s a high disciplined person whose apartment is always impeccable, his clothes are perfectly folded or hanged, his food on the fridge is classified by types and his bed is neatly done to the point that I don’t even want to breathe anywhere near it, afraid that a mere blow of air could raise a wrinkle. It’s no surprise that he knows how to properly take advantage of the space in a medium-sized backpack and accommodate five food-containers, three bottles, the pill and a small tablecloth. I’m the savage teenager whose apartment, clothes and food are a mess. Well, the grown-up whose things are spread on the floor and bed’s sheets are occasionally outstretched on the mattress. My case is that serious that I’ve earned few disapproving frowns from Bucky.

We ride through the streets with the magic of the night and starlights, guiding us to our building and the promise of more time together. Once we arrive to his apartment, Bucky’s eager to watch Episode V and I find myself incapable of refusing him. However, instead of sitting next to me on the couch, he pulls me closer and lays back against the couch arm, positioning me on top of him, more or less like before, wrapping his left arm loosely around my waist, his fingers brushing up and down my still exposed skin and letting my head rest on his pectorals. Much to my dismay. A heavy sigh escapes our mouths and every curve of our bodies mold into the other. Yearning for physical contact is a mutual instinct, and I understand why; he was deprived from it for seventy years, the only contact he knew were sharp blows and jabs, medical checks, gunshots, knife-cuts, metal and ice. I knew rushed hands, love-bites, digging nails, I knew hugs, warm kisses on the forehead and they never seemed real. I couldn’t feel them, until Bucky taught me how to melt into the human touch, his touch, and I learned how to break into colors when he did. I cling tighter to him, the need to remind him and me that we are real and it’s through touching that we make sure we are. 

Not the identical awe with Episode IV is written on his face when watching the sequel, but a tremendous glorification is his reaction. After it’s finished, the post-movie debate, that’s what I’ve called it, is far more interesting than the movie itself. At least, to me.

‘I knew Darth Vader was his father’, he announces, pointing at the screen. I huff. What is he saying?

‘There’s no way you could!’, I lift up to look skeptically at him.

‘Of course I did, I’m a trained super spy, I can tell’, there’s a smug grin playing on his features. Trained super spy or not, I’m not buying it.

‘Alright, how did you know he was Luke’s father, care to elaborate?’, I challenge him and we straighten up, facing each other. There’s a good debate coming; I’m ready.

‘Obi-Wan implied it since Episode IV, you know? That look whenever he spoke about Anakin and his encounter with Darth Vader before he died’, he speaks matter-of-factly, his words telling me I’ve been blind to the references hidden in the character’s behavior, as if it was that obvious. ‘Then, during Luke’s training with Master Yoda, that green dwarf also implies it when talking about Obi-Wan’s padawan’. Oh, my God. Who would have imagined Bucky Barnes was one for calling names to fictional people and making jokes about movies? The Lord works in mysterious ways. 

He doesn’t give up trying to convince me that he knew all along, but when he realizes I’m just as stubborn, he lets me win. Ever the gentleman. He keeps eating, whether is a huge bowl of his favorite ice-cream, jelly-beans or more fruit, and I look at him in amusement, happy that he’s not holding back. There’s no need to wonder how he stays fit given that I know it’s a perk from the serum and the fact that he works out endless hours over the week. Next day, we settle back into our nice daily activities with the slight change of proper good-morning, have-a-good-day, welcome-back and good-night kisses. Yes, I’m a helpless addicted to Bucky’s lips. 

As days go by, our relationship blossoms with pureness and stability, providing us with a joy that none of us quite believe. We keep learning from each other, we evolve in ways that test our perception of the other’s personality, because although we remain the same, deep down, we know there’s something changing inside of us, in our reactions, expressions and actions, and it’s more evident in my case than his. He’s chattier, more comfortable with himself in my presence, the gloves, jackets and long-sleeved shirts disappear gradually, he’s more curious and sympathetic, but I’ve noticed, so have Liana, Costin and Bucky, that there are minor changes in me too, good ones, I’d like to think, and they are defining me as a new person. Someone willing to explore and discover, to live, someone with hopes and desires, with a mind of their own. Someone who’s not that afraid of the world anymore, someone free… someone almost natural. The little, frighten girl, the demons and ghosts will always lurk from the halls of my past, I can’t erase them, forget or forgive them, I can only learn to live with them, as Bucky said. Not alone. Never alone. Between work, morning runs, dancing lessons and stolen kisses, we keep moving forward. The signs of that terrible winter I endured are nowhere to be seen; it’s over. Bucky’s back, he won’t leave, and if he does, I’ll go with him. We promised. 

It’s April before I know it. Bucky’s currently helping me with dinner, well, he’s preparing the table while I finish the salad. He’s wearing that navy-blue shirt I bought him last week and even though I regretted not picking up a bigger size back then, I don’t dare to complain. It’s hard to tear my eyes off the bulging muscles of his bicep, his chest stretching the fabric of the shirt, making him look broader, and those dark jeans bracing his thick thighs are simply killing me. Oh, boy. He’s unaware of the distraction he represents to me, and I bite down my lip to suppress a whine. We sit down to eat after a long day at work and a rough evening working out at the abandoned train station. I see him grimace at the plate of fish, then groan at the bowl full of lettuce mixed with several more vegetables in front of him. 

‘Am I really that bad of a cooker?’, I ask, honestly worried that he confirms my doubts.

‘No! Of course not! Everything you do is delicious’, he hurries to assure me. ‘I’m just not good with vegetables’, his confession is innocent, yet reluctant.

‘Well, we can’t live from chicken and potatoes all the time, you have to eat healthy to keep that super-soldier body in shape’, insert slap. Bucky quirks his eyebrow, amused by my unintentional revelation poorly disguised by a scolding tone. ‘Now, eat’, I command, my cheeks burning.

‘You look pretty when you’re bossy’, he flashes me charming smile, enjoying himself far too much.

‘That’s getting you nowhere’, he snickers and we continue to eat. I won’t ever admit it to him, but that smile in particular has an effect on me that in any other situation would have worked easily. Thanks God I’m able to resist his newfound charms. Our dinners aren’t always joined by a fluent conversation, we still enjoy silence, quiet activities and knowing looks, but random subjects pop out from time to time, and it’s also fun. ‘I’ve been thinking about leaving the dancing lessons’, I say and he looks at me with questioning eyes. We’re standing over the sink, he’s washing the dishes and I’m drying them. Great team work. ‘I wanna try confectionery’, my announcement makes his whole face light up in anticipation. I frown.

‘You mean cakes and cookies and candies?’, of course. I should have guessed that was the reason. His sweet tooth isn’t one to disappoint.

‘Exactly, so if you eat vegetables, I promise to honor your sacrifice with a good dessert, though it might get a little rough at first until I master the ancient art of baking’, his smile falters little, not entirely content with my offer. He deliberates on his options and ends up agreeing before we head off the apartment towards the rooftop. I knew I could coax him to eat more vegetables with some kind of deal. I didn’t imagine his preference for candies would be a disadvantage. 

Bucky’s sitting on the ledge, eating jelly-beans, his hair dances at the pace of the blowing wind, the blue of his eyes getting lost in the evening sky. He’s so beautiful. I’m looking up at him from the floor, my back resting against the ledge and a neglected book on my lap; it’s the contrast itself what embellish the background, the contrast of his midnight-blue silhouette bathed in sunset lights coming from behind. Magnificent. I forget about Ask The Dusk and choose to sit opposite Bucky to admire the dying sun, welcoming Venus and the rest of the stars. Suddenly, my peace is taken away by the reminder of certain activity I’ve been thinking of how to escape and I let out a groan.

‘Liana is taking me shopping tomorrow after work’, my voice is full of affliction. Robin Dawson, 5’4-handful of drama.

‘You don’t like shopping?’, Bucky looks at me with his brows knitted.

‘I do, but she takes ages to choose her clothes, she tries on thousands of them’, whiny. I cover my face with my hands and mumble against my palms. ‘I’m gonna die outside the dressing rooms waiting for her, Bucky, I swear, you’ll have to carry my lifeless body out of the mall’, I hear him chuckle.

‘Why don’t you just say no? She can’t force you to do it’, he suggests and I peek through my fingers. He’s smiling sympathetically at me.

‘Oh, you don’t know her’, I drop my hands and duck my head, embracing my imminent death. ‘She’ll complain about it until she drives me crazy and I accept to go’. Bucky is silent for several seconds, I crawl closer to him and he immediately opens his arms to let me straddle his tights and bury my face in the crook of his neck, looking for comfort. 

‘You said you wanted to check on Orange if they have this…’, he trails, trying to find the missing term. I pull away and frown.

‘Modem USB? Yeah, what’s with that?’.

‘The store closes at eight, right?’, I nod. ‘Be there a little later so you do that first and she gets less time to try clothes’, his proposal leaves me astonished. I analyze it, unable to find an excuse to reject it, then I smile and lean forward until our noses touch.

‘Aren’t you my white knight in shining armor?’, he smiles back and kisses me softly, wrapping his arms around my waist to reduce the distance I put between our hearts. 

‘I don’t want her to steal my girl away for too long’, this is one of those moments that make me forget how much it has taken him to be comfortable to say things like these, yet it makes me cherish them more. Bucky kisses me again, stronger, closer, and my head skyrockets to bliss. 

I do as Bucky suggested. By the time Liana and I arrive to the mall, it’s late enough to spend less time at the boutiques. I send him millions of kisses and a suffocating hug across the particles of matter that separate us. Getting the modem USB is more complicated than I though and it requires longer to finish the paperwork so they can deliver the device without problem. I hate paperwork. Once we leave Orange, Liana flies to the second floor of the mall and starts running all over the stores, picking out as many dresses as her arms can carry. As predicted, she spends ages in the dressing room trying out the huge bunch of clothes she took in; none of them satisfies her and both of us start to irritate. 

‘ _What exactly are we looking for?_ ’, I ask, yawning from the chair in front of the mirrors, where she examines her figure. We’re already checking out in another store, it’s almost nine o’clock, I’m tired and we’re not making any progress here. I even left her on her own to check if the Converse Store was still open, I bought something there and came back to find Liana struggling with the same dress. I threw myself less than gracefully on the chair to keep waiting. Maybe I will die, after all.

‘ _A dress that isn’t too fancy, but not simple either_ ’, she murmurs, turning to appreciate every angle. ‘ _He’s taking me to the Curu’ Cu Bere_ ’, if I had something inside my mouth, I would have definitely spit it out. I clear my throat to pretend not choking on my down saliva.

‘ _Wow, that’s a… nice place_ ’, and a very, very expensive place. I knew he was some kind of business man, not the big brother of Richie Rich. ‘ _He’s quite excited about the whole thing, and so am I_ ’, there’s a wide smile on her pinky lips and it doesn’t matter how I feel about Andrei or the dynamics of their relationship, Liana is a wonderful being that deserves to be treated with respect, to be worshiped.

‘ _I’m happy to hear that_ ’, it’s impossible not to share her enthusiasm, she’s one of those persons whose happiness is contagious, and because she has claimed herself a special place in my heart and life, because I want nothing but the best for her, my answer is honest.

‘ _What do you think of this one?_ ’, she turns back to ask me.

‘ _I like it more than the others_ ’, it’s the nicest she’s picked, I must say, and she looks stunning dressed in red. My approval makes her sigh in relief.

‘ _Okay, this one is then_ ’, finally. Hail Zeus, I’m going home! 

She pays for the dress and we head out of the store, Liana almost jumping in excitement. I’m beyond thankful that she didn’t have to buy shoes as well, it would have taken us another hour, or another day given the late hour, and my nerves wouldn’t have stand it. Bless her wardrobe. On our way to the bus stop, she rambles about how nice Andrei is, the things they like to do together. The age gap is not a problem, according to her, he’s very patient and respects her terms, never pushing her or asking what she’s not ready to give, and I’m proud she remains true to herself. I’m genuinely surprised that she’s willing to share her relationship with me although I don’t reciprocate the gesture. It took her a while to forgive me and understand that I still struggle with the issue, yet I’m as willing as her to try when I’m prepared for it. My bus arrives first and I say goodbye to her with a tight hug, which she returns with a loud laugh and wishes for a good night. I love this girl; she’s so full of life. The drive back home is calm, I think of what I’m planning to do when I get to the building, the city lights play from behind the window glass and my need for his arms increases to the point of craving. I miss him dearly, for the briefest of seconds, for the longest hours, I can’t seem to bare the distance depriving me from his touch. As soon as I close the door of my apartment, I hear two knocks, and I run towards it, opening with impatience and throwing myself at him. He reacts in time and catches me. He always catches me.

‘How did it go?’, he asks, face buried in my my hair, his breath mingling with the strands. We pull away and he kisses my forehead.

‘Got the modem!’, I declare, gesturing the bags I put over the table. We walk, hand in hand, towards the small dinning room to unpack my purchases. I take out the modem, but brush it aside to look for the main reason I was so excited when I left the Converse store. ‘And a surprise for you’, he smiles warmly and I hand him the famous, black carton box. He opens it, stopping for a moment to look at his present, then looks at me, the blue of his eyes as bright as the moonlight pouring from the windows.

‘They’re like yours’, he says, his voice loving, vibrating with gratitude.

‘Like Danny Zuko’s, from Grease, remember?’, he examines one of the shoes, nodding in agreement. ‘You like them?’, I can’t stop myself from asking. I’m way too excited and I’m not ashamed to show it. He places the black Converse on the table and turns to lean and kiss me hard, so hard that I start to feel dizzy. Here is the kind of homecoming I was hoping for, my body pressed firmly against his, no distance, no time, just the two of us breathing in the none-existent space around our souls. My Bucky, Bucky’s smell, soap and cotton, Bucky’s taste, fresh water and plums, Bucky’s hands, hot and cold, holding me to never let me go, giving me everything he is, and everything he’s not. 

‘What did I ever do to deserve you?’, he mumbles between kisses. We pull away to sigh a weak laugh; we’re breathless looks and swollen hearts. ‘Guess I have to take you out dancing now’, I hum and stand on my toes to kiss him again. It’s so soft and innocent that it nearly makes my knees buckle.

‘You sure have’, I rest my hands on his taut chest. ‘But first’, I press my index finger against his shoulder. ‘You’re getting a haircut’, his smile fades in the blink of an eye and is replaced by a panicked expression. Is he aware of how comical he looks? I bet no.

‘What? Why?’.

‘You’re five millimeters away from looking like Tarzan-Rapunzel-Legolas Prince of the Woodland Realm’, I point out, his face cracked in confusion. ‘Movies we still have to watch’, I turn to head towards the bathroom. ‘I’ll get the scissors, you sit and wait’. 

‘I thought you liked me with long hair’, he argues. I remember telling him that few weeks ago, he seemed proud, that smug grin playing on his features, and I also remember how much I struggled to compose myself. Sadly, for him, I’m determined to give him back the perfect length that steals the last drop of air from my lungs. I’m not saying he doesn’t look handsome, he just needs an update.

‘Nice try’, I grin mischievously at him and his shoulders tense. He’s nervous. Bucky Barnes is afraid of a haircut. This boy is unbelievable, and sweet. 

‘But it’s late and you must be exhausted’, he follows me into the bathroom. ‘I’ll cut it next month, I promise’, I look for the scissors inside the drawer of the sink along with a hair comb and a small towel. ‘Please’, when I turn, I bump into his pleading eyes. He’s afflicted and I feel a minor twinge of doubt. I shake my head, trying to focus on my intentions and reassure myself. ‘Please, Robin’, he’s pouting. I can’t believe it! ‘ _Pozhaluysta, moy letniy briz i raduga_ '. Oh, God. He’s bringing out the big guns. He knows I have a soft spot for him when he speaks Russian to me and calls me like that. I ignore the reason, I suspect it’s related to a twisted analogy in the association of my experience with the language, and he’s using it to get out of this one. He’s playing dirty. 

‘Fine’, I’m done for. I put the tools back in the drawer and turn without looking at him. I’m not upset, just really disturbed by my lack of conviction. ‘Well then, you’ll have to help me install the modem’. His triumphant smile vanishes for good. He can know my weaknesses, but I know his, and anything related to technology makes him weary.

We go to sleep later than usual because both of us are not good with manuals full of complicated words, at least there are not countless wires to connect or strange buttons. That was the whole point when I thought about buying the USB, that we could have access to internet without the traditional modem and being able to look for whatever we want or need. Once settled, Bucky heads to his apartment, his good mood revived by the Converse I gave him, and kisses me good-night with a content smirk. I spoil him like a child the same way he treats me like the most delicate piece of glass. I don’t mind him being careful, quite contrary, it somehow takes a pressure off my shoulders, it reminds me that I don’t have to be focused all the time. After my parents died, I had to build a shield around me, I made myself something between the mechanic doll and the frighten, little girl from my childhood. I was afraid of many things, yet that didn’t prevent me from escaping the demons and the ghosts in ways that helped me to thicken the shield. Alcohol, drugs, sex, they were useful for a while. The years I spent traveling taught me to rely on them; I wanted to forget, I was desperately trying to forgive, but it was impossible. There was too much pain and darkness. I let myself drown in the chemicals, I let them burn my system until I realized there was no relief, no freedom. I chose Bucharest because I needed to destroy that creature I became. I had to be invisible, to be no one so no one could find me. I lost myself. And then I met Bucky, and Bucky reached deep enough to awake my world. Those changes I’ve noticed, the emergence of virtues I never acknowledged may reveal a newborn hopping to become a living human. Some day, some time in a nearer future. For now, I have this, my job, the tiny apartment, my friendship with Liana and my love for Bucky. They make belong to this life, this world, they make me exist in my own reality.

Summer begins to loom around the corner. The temperature increases slowly, steady, and our lives collide with the inexorable present, against the nightmares and terrors carved in our souls. I find ourselves sharing more evenings, treasuring each moment, whether is me reading a book or articles found in the media and Bucky’s lying on my lap, listening to music with the headphones on, or him preparing breakfast and me sipping on my coffee cup. He does research on his own on internet, asking me what he should avoid or what I think might be interesting to him, and I observe him watching dancing or music videos, science channels in YouTube, reading articles about culture and History, always filtering those related to World War II or psychological topics, as well as news about The Avengers. It’s not he doesn’t want to know about them, he said, he’s not ready to confront that information, and he doesn’t want to trigger any bad memory; one can only remember so much. 

‘Robin?’, he calls from the kitchen table, eyes glued to the screen of the MacBook. I had the brilliant idea to volunteer as tribute and join him on his daily morning run, which ended up with me having an asthma attack and Bucky losing his mind, practically carrying me back to the building. We decided to spend the rest of the day indoors under the scrutiny of Bucky’s eyes, watching me like a hawk to make sure I wasn’t going to faint at any given second. 

‘Yup?’. I’m laying on his bed, arms and legs spread around me, fatigued, contemplating my stupidity. My day-off didn’t have a good start.

‘What exactly are pet-names?’, I lift my head and sit up to get a better view of a puzzled Bucky, expression serious, eyes narrowed. Utterly absorbed in whatever he’s reading.

‘Where did you get that from?’, I quirk an eyebrow, the hint of amusement breaking my voice.

‘It’s in here’, he stands up without looking away from the screen and sits next to me so I can see what on earth is he reading. ‘See? Modern pet-names for girlfriends’, he points out the line where he found the term. The moment I read it and see the top of the page, a weird blog about relationship guidance (with a full list of tips and advices), I throw my head back, my lungs exploding into such laugher that Bucky jumps in his place, taken aback. ‘What’s so funny?’, he sounds beyond confused, and it earns a louder reaction from me.

‘How could you possibly been looking for that?’, tears form in the corner of my eyes from laughing so hard.

‘You said we needed to catch up with this century!’, he defends. I’m curled up on the bed, my belly starts to hurt. I have to stop before I get another asthma attack, I already started to cough. We wait for me to regain some control and catch my breath, his jaw is clenched in discomfort and I sense his body rigid next to me. Okay, that’s enough mockery. ‘Tell me why’s so funny’, he asks again when I’m calmed down enough to hear him, I lean my head over his shoulder, my giggling muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

‘Okay, let me explain this to you’, I turn so we face each other, thinking about the most appropriate way to approach the issue to him. ‘These are… private ways to call your girlfriend, like sweet nicknames that are can only be exchanged between you two’, I explain, the wrinkles on his forehead beginning to clear up and comprehension kicking in his features. ‘It’s kind of corny’, I shrug and look down at the screen of the laptop, puffing at the image of a couple with a fake happily-ever-after smile. I recognize a happy smile when I see it, and that is every time Bucky smiles at me.

‘I already have one for you’, my head snaps to him. He what? My heart swells inside my chest, the exact way it always does whenever he comes up with this kind of things. It’s a sudden reaction of his, I’ve perceived, a glimpse of his thoughts that he unconsciously displays for me. Prove of that is the strong shade of pink burning on his cheeks.

‘You do?’, my tone is soft, caressing. Any trace of amusement gone. ‘Can I know it?’, I put my hand over his metal one, drawing soothing circles with my thumb, secretly wondering if it represents any difference to him.

‘You do know’, he mutters, intertwining our fingers, shy and awkward. ‘Little bird, _letniy briz i raduga_ ', I sigh deeply, a fluttering in my stomach and a knot on my throat prevent me from speaking, the weight of his words sinking me down the floor. I’m his summer breeze and rainbow. That’s what I mean to him, that’s what he feels like when he’s with me. That’s me through his eyes and soul; I refuse to accept that “baby”, “boo-bear” or “sweaty” are anyway more beautiful and romantic than “summer breeze and rainbow”. I’d challenge the entire world to refute it. ‘Do you have one for me?’, I didn’t notice when he leaned closer to me, his lips practically brushing against the skin of my collar-bone, rising goosebumps, making me shiver.

‘ _Moya yarkaya zvezda vsekh_ ', I whisper, tilting my head to the side and bare my neck to him. He hums in appreciation and presses a light kiss to my jaw. We are eyes locked, heavy breaths and tickling clocks. He pushes me down the bed, ever so gently, so carefully, and lays on top of me, hovering above me without putting a single pound on me. He encases my head with his arms at each side of it, my legs open to let him nest between them, running my calves up and down his waist. ‘Our “pet-names” are quite large, don’t you think?’, I say and we chuckle, the melodious sound getting lost in the electricity radiating from our bodies.

‘Yeah’, he sighs, indifferent to my statement, too occupied driving me crazy with his velvety mouth pulsating on my neck. There are the very starts twinkling in the blue of his eyes again. My brightest star of all.

He hugs me, nothing more, and I fall asleep with him by my side. I wake up by dinner time, Bucky’s already shaking my shoulders to get up and have some food, assuring me that I can go back to sleep if I’m still tired. I do, and he takes his leave, walking backwards to the door without taking his sparkling eyes away from my sleepy ones. I think through the events of that day, feeling guilty about laughing at him the way I did; he was searching for the slang according to this age. He was trying to familiarize with the words commonly used, it was an effort of him, something he looked for because of me. “Modern pet-names for girlfriends”. He wanted to be more normal, for me. Stupid Robin, heartless witch. The next morning, I bath him with apologies, clinging to him like a baby koala, thanking him for being so attentive, and he assures me there’s nothing to apologize for, because, I quote, “most of them were bullshit anyways”. We laugh.

The café is waiting for me at seven-thirty. Punctual, ready and early. I grab my jacket, my purse and the helmet. Bucky’s smiling at me, standing under the threshold of the door. Although his eyes are the same, someplace where a river meets the ocean, he holds me the same, fusing our bones and every fiber of our muscles, and kisses me goodbye like he always does, so warm and hard, there’s a mysterious mien in his movements. They’re knowing, without the hesitance to let me go and the longing to see me coming back to him. There’s something different. I try to discard any suspicion formulating in my mind, distracting me with the streets turning into blur as the morning wind smashes my face and the sun rises over the high buildings as my feet guide me to the very center of the metropolitan life. There’s also something different about it. My shift starts at a low pace, customers walking in the café, one by one exchanging smiles, kind words with me, and Liana arrives the instant the clock sets two. How does it time run away from me?

‘ _Rob, Rob! Hot burglar at ten_ ’. I hear Liana quietly shout at me from behind the counter. I turn to my right, careful not to drop the tray full of plates and cups. Hot burglar at ten? ‘ _Your other ten_ ', oh. I turn to my left, the clock keeps tickling and the world keeps spinning. My hands are trembling, the brittle sound of vibrating ceramic serves as background music and his eyes have never been so bright. Bucky. Bucky’s here, like that first day of spring, dressed in shades of blue and black, face covered by a cap and metal skin hiding under his gloves. Bucky’s here, setting the room on fire, repelling and attracting each one of my senses with magnetic force. ‘ _You think he’s following you?_ ’, I’m feeling numb, Liana’s voice far away in the distance. It takes my soul solid ten seconds to find its way back inside my body. I’m thrilled, the frenzy running through my veins as I embrace his soothing presence, fighting against the urge to run in his direction and just melt into him. Everything is happening so fast that I barely manage to collect my thoughts and command my brain to function. He doesn’t come to my work because he thinks it’s risky if someone associates me with him, that he can being followed, and I could get involved in a dangerous situation. So, what is he doing here? 

‘ _What? No, I mean, it’s been a long time since he came, I don’t think he’s here because of– of me, that’s–_ ’, my poor excuse doesn’t make it complete. 

‘ _You like him!_ ’, Liana state, I panic. She can’t know. Not now. My nerves dim when I realize I’m exaggerating, the first impression was so intense that it overpowered my rational thinking. It’s just Bucky, another customer in this context out of our context, a person in this world out of world. Ordinary human. When I process what Liana is saying, the panic turns into anger.

‘ _Oh, Jesus, Liana, knock it off!_ ’, she quirks his eyebrow, a malicious twist appears in the corner of her mouth. I know that face. ‘ _Don’t give me that look_ ’, I glare at her, but she ignores my warning and the twist deepens. There’s nowhere to run, she trapped me and I have to give up on the truth because hiding what is obvious will crumble, sooner or later. He has made me transparent. ‘ _Fine, I like him! I like him a lot! Happy now?_ ’, my put the tray down rather harshly.

‘ _I knew it_ ’, she says, detective Liana proud of her observation skills. Then she frowns in realization. ‘ _But what about your guy?_ ’, now is my turn to frown.

‘ _What guy?_ ’, I hear the bell ring, indicating a new customer arrived. We must go back to work, I say to myself.

‘ _The one you’re dating_ ’, is right there, sitting in the farthest corner of the café. Can’t she see him? Brighter than the sun, stealing my attention with his mere silent existence.

‘ _I told you I wasn’t dating anyone_ ’, I mutter, desperate to get on with this. We must go back to work, I remind myself.

‘ _Then you should ask him out_ ’, she encourages, nudging my side, wiggling her eyebrows. Her voice is suddenly too loud, piercing my ears like a drill on a wall. ‘ _He’s very handsome_ ’, those words in her lips taste bitter in my mouth. They’re misplaced, they don’t belong to her, they ignite a nameless feeling, something angry, selfish and raw.

‘ _First Andrei, now him, really? I’m serious, Liana, stop trying to set me up on a date with–_ ’, 

‘ _Good morning_ ’, a charming greeting forces us to look away from each other and turn to the tall figure standing not far from us. It’s Andrei. Great, now I have to deal with the Ken-doll too. I have to time for this, I must go back to work and actually attend people who’s waiting for their orders and bills. 

‘ _Excuse me_ ’, I don’t return the greeting, turning on my heels and walking away from the overwhelming scenario.

I find myself heading to Bucky’s direction, maybe out of instinct, looking for comfort and the peaceful aura surrounding him. What I find, however, is his stern expression. There are angry wrinkles in his forehead and mouth, his hands tighten into fists and the light stubble of his jaw doesn’t disguise the clench there, but once his gaze settles on me, the whole of him softens. There’s my Bucky, gentle and strong. I let his familiarity flood the air I breathe, closing the distance that needs to disappear and eradicate the residues of my tension. I stop only far enough for him to outstretch his hands and reach for me, like he always does, and I want him to do it right here and now. When he doesn’t, I can’t help but to be disappointed.

‘You okay?’, the honest worry of his tone brings me back to the place and time we’re living in. He’s not speaking Romanian, and that adds an intimate note to his question. I smile at him in reassurance.

‘Lots of cream and lots of sugar, right?’, I ask, already knowing the answer. He nods and I head to the kitchen to prepare his coffee, forgetting about the rest of the customers. Liana has gone to attend her tasks, finally, and we harmonize our movements around the café; she brings orders, I clean tables, she delivers bills and I pick up dirty dishes. Costin collects the money. The Three Coffeteers. 

Bucky blends in the picture with such ease that it’s natural to orbit around him, but he doesn’t fit completely. It’s a peculiarity in the environment, like a book in an empty shelve or a knot in a wire. It’s a red mark in a dark painting, yet part of the canvas all the while. It’s a paradox. He scans his surroundings from his seat, sipping at his coffee and running his eyes from table to table, paying special attention to the entrance. He’s preparing to jump into action if needed. Uptight, frightened, ready. The shadow of those first days interacting with my nameless neighbor hovers above him, this Bucky that loves ice-cream and plums, listens to The Rolling Stones and Queen, this Bucky I keep falling for. I shake my head, trying to dissolve the memory of that man I met one rainy day of August a lifetime ago. 

‘ _Hello, Robin!_ ’, I hear someone calling my name, and I turn to look for the source, just to meet with a broad smile and hazel eyes. He’s sitting in his usual spot next to the window, newspaper and coffee on the table, and I didn’t notice me stepping closer while cleaning tables, so apparently, I’m standing several inches away. ‘ _How are you?_ ’, he asks in a polite tone when I don’t answer.

‘ _Good, thank you_ ’, I pull on my best smile, well, my best attempt, and look away, uncomfortable under his gaze. ‘ _And you?_ ’, I pretend to be busy cleaning, more than I usually do, to avoid a longer conversation. He doesn’t get the memo.

‘ _Great, actually_ ’, he sighs and lets out a content hum. ‘ _Very happy_ ’, I look back at him, his words traveling to the opposite side of the café and I don’t have to turn because I know Liana must be there. His eyes are dreamy, tender, and I can almost believe him. I want to, for my dear friend’s sake, but my guts are telling me there’s something wrong about this. I want to trust his intentions, I simply can’t.

‘ _I’m glad to hear that_ ’, the fakeness in my voice is heavy, too evident to ignore. He does, though. ‘ _Excuse me, I must go back to work_ ’.

‘ _Wait!_ ’, he stops me on my tracks and reach for my arm, forcing me to face him again. I was already three steps away; I guess I’m not that lucky. His iron grip starts to unease me, I gulp to swallow the lump on my throat. He’s too direct, too confident, and it’s intimidating, that’s why I feel so nervous whenever he’s near. I failed to understand why, I know it’s ridiculous and that he’s a simple man, however, the finesse in his movements, proud stance and purring voice remind me of Liev. Ice and blood. Speaking of: ‘ _I wanted to make sure that everything is okay between you and Liana, you know, that I didn’t step on..._ ’.

‘ _It’s okay_ ’, I hurry to say, squirming to free my arm. He lets go, his features contorting with concern. This is beyond awkward, I refuse to talk about it with him, or talk to him at all. His respect towards our friendship is kind, it sounds kind, but I can’t, I can’t believe it’s born out of pure honesty. I only hope it doesn’t compromise my relationship with Liana in any way; she deserves my best effort.

‘ _Liana also told me you were seeing someone and I just want you to know that I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable_ ’, he looks down, ashamed. Zeus, help me. This is turning exasperating, and if he keeps saying that kind of things, I’ll start hyperventilating, or worst, I’ll get sick.

‘ _Thank you_ ’, I smile at him and his face lifts to return the gesture. I’m feeling nauseous. ‘ _Have a good day_ ’, he frowns at my strangled voice, but doesn’t comment on it. Thanks God it’s over.

I rush to hide in the kitchen, where the rest of the sounds and faces can’t reach to my senses. My brain is hammering inside my skull, the vain of my temple pulsating and I swear my lungs are about to explode inside my ribcage. Robin Dawson intimidated by a totally average business man, in love with a former soviet spy wearing an I-could-kill-you-in-your-sleep expression most of the time. I’m that logical. Ten minutes after, I take a deep breath and step out to confront my duties as a waitress half chicken, meanwhile, Liana is buzzing around Andrei like a bee on a flower, continually asking if he needs anything. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, there’s just a tiny smile on his lips as he reads through the newspaper. Orders and customers demand my full attention and it’s almost four o’clock when I check on Bucky, if he wants a refill or something to eat. For a moment, everything seems fine, he’s sun-kissed and shinning with orange light, the cap covering most of his face, leaving it in the shadows. When I’m close enough to get a better view of his expression, a shrill runs up my spine.

Murderous doesn’t do justice. He’s gripping so tight the ceramic cup that there’s a crack from the bottom to the top, a crack that wasn’t there before, his muscles are tense, he looks beefier, if that’s even possible, his eyes fixed on Andrei’s direction and I wonder how the man hasn’t noticed yet. I take the last, cautious steps towards him. Bucky’s getting me nervous too.

‘That guy really wants to get himself killed’, he mutters through gritted teeth. My eyes widen in terror.

‘Bucky!’.

‘I’m just saying, I brought the revolver and–’, 

‘Bucky!’, I cut him off. I try not to be loud, but the panic doesn’t allow it. He looks at me, the anger disappearing and he lets go of the cup. I grab it, not asking if he’d like more coffee. ‘Just ignore him’, I sigh and turn without looking back at him. I’m internally having a heart-attack and there’s nothing I wish more than my shift to end as soon as possible.

I avoid approaching to him for the rest of the evening, I squint every now and then, finding him more relaxed, focused on his iPod. I bet he’s playing Candy Crush, the game that he swore would never pick his attention, yet here he is. Don’t I know him. I hear him ask for the bill and walk out of the café, making the new bell of the door ring, announcing his departure. I remain alert, anxious and mortified to death. God is merciful and shuts Liana’s mouth until all tables are clean, dishes washed, and costumers gone, then we can call a day. Thanks goodness. My legs are at the verge of giving up, tired of supporting the rest of my body, and I’m exhausted to no end. I consider asking Costin if I can leave the bicycle inside the café and go back home by bus, but decide against it, putting on the helmet and pedaling at a sluggish pace towards the building. For the first time since we’re together, I don’t crave for his touch or his lips, and it’s not because I’m angry at him; I don’t understand why he got riled up by Andrei and why this man disturbs me that violently, and not understanding it torments me. Both of our reactions are irrational, ridiculous, we have no control when it comes to social treatment, and that has to stop. We have each other, we belong to each other, and no one will take that from us, but we’re not the only ones in this world, as much as we want to think so, we must learn how to live in it. Together and on our own. I’m not aware of the moment I enter my apartment, I just feel a wave of safety untying the knots of my muscles. Home is safety, home is peace. Welcome back. Back home.

‘Robin?’, Bucky’s voice startles me. I didn’t hear him knock, and I find myself standing in the middle of the room. I shake my head and head to open the door to reveal a very afflicted Bucky. Eyes down and head ducked. ‘Hi’, he whispers. I step beside to let him in, he does, ever hesitant, fearful. Oh, Bucky. We don’t speak as we walk over the dinning-room table, we sit, avoiding exchanging looks, and contemplate the empty surface for a while. I don’t like this quietness, we don’t usually feel uncomfortable with it, yet it’s clear that things are tense between us. No, I don’t like it, I rather hate it. ‘Are you mad?’, his voice is low, and I struggle to hear his question.

There’s guilt, hurt, and agony emanating from him. I let out a heavy sigh, still not meeting his eyes and rest my elbows on the table, massaging my temples.

‘No, but you freaking out about him freaks me out… more’, I see him grimace from my peripheral vision, then cover his face with both of his hands, muffling a long intake of air.

‘I’m sorry’, he mumbles. That’s it. I overreacted, Andrei is not to blame for it, nor Liana. Bucky overreacted too, he’s not blame for it, nor me. And I can’t stand seeing Bucky like this, wary and reserved to even look at me because it reminds me of the nameless neighbor. Uptight. All tiny nods and stuttering. Frightened. Locked inside himself. Ready. Every nerve exposed to be burned. It’s intolerable. I gather the strength to stand up and walk around the table, take his hands in mine and draw gentle circles over his knuckles, comforting him. Bringing him back to me.

‘Liana was right, though’, I chuckle nervously, tugging at his fingers to force him to reveal his face and look up to me. His blue eyes are watery, the guilt is deep and they’re hurting. He’s hurting. What for? Whatever he thinks he did wrong. He opens his arm to me, no longer bearing the distance between us, and I sit on his lap, burying my face in the crook of his neck, melting into the feeling of his strong arms holding me tight. ‘I like the hot burglar, a lot’, we chuckle and I pull back to kiss him already.

He kisses me back immediately, so desperate, hungry, and I let him take it all, my despair, my confusion, my own hunger and my love. We kiss until our lips are swollen and shiny, our jaws aching. The corners of his mouth twist in a happy, weak smile, our chests rising up and down, breathless and satiated, his hands grasping the fabric of my shirt and my fingers scratching his scalp. I don’t know how we end up laying on my bed, his body pressing me against the mattress with delicate, calculated force. We fit so flawlessly that it scares me, it’s like we were broken to fill the empty spaces that were carved in our bodies, hearts and souls, we move in synch like people who have danced an entire life, we bleed and we die the same. We are two galaxies that collided in the darkness and cold of the space, bursting into snowflakes and falling stars. We are whole, and together we are something that can’t be named.

He’s saying something.

‘Can I stay with you tonight?’.

Something beautiful.

‘Robin’.

Something infinite.

‘Can I stay with you tonight?’.

 _Yes_.

‘Stay’.

 _Stay with me forever_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLOOOOOOOOOOOO MY LOE LOOOOOVES! God, I'm so so excited about this!!!! First, I really can't believe how long is this chapter, when I saw my word count on Word there were 33 pages! I really went nuts this time, BUT I'm also beyond proud because Goooooood so many things I love about it! I actually fell in love with Bucky and Robin, they're like my OTP now hahaha Also, well, it was so frustrating because I to this ready at least two weeks ago, but kept adding and removing things until I was satisfied with the final version. I honestly hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> We're heading to the end of the series, I mean, we still have a long, long way to go, but still, every chapter is a new step to the very end and I can't wait to share it with you! You might've notices, if you follow me on Tumblr, that I haven't updated the fic there and it's because it is too long and people could not be that comfortable. So in the mean time, I'll just post it here until I come up with a solution. if you have any ideas, let me know! 
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! This story is coming to life because you still read me ahahaha even though I take ages to update. It's complicated because the building of each chapter is taking me more time to develop given the own plot of the story. I just want you to bear with me till the end... of line :P
> 
> PS: I meant to post it this morning, but something went wrong and had to delete it. I'm sorry for that :)


	20. Exorcism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _
> 
> "Dearest Cecilia, the story can resume. The one I had been planning on that evening walk. I can become again the man who once crossed the surrey park at dusk, in my best suit, swaggering on the promise of life. The man who, with the clarity of passion, made love to you in the library. The story can resume. I will return. Find you, love you, marry you and live without shame. Atonement.
> 
> _

The nightmares started right after I spent the night at Robin’s apartment. Her warmth and calm breathing couldn’t soothe them away. They felt too real, and the terror stole my senses until I became a desperate animal trapped in the web of his own fear. I found myself surrounded by snow, gunfire in the air, submerged in a cruel winter I couldn’t escape, no matter how much I fought against it all. My vision was black and my hands were red; my loneliness and pain had never been so wide awake. And I went on, and on and on. I climbed the mountains until my feet bled, I walked through every desert, drowned in every ocean and cleared every shadow until I closed my eyes and fell. Steve wasn’t there, neither Natalia, none of them scared me, yet right in front of me, laid a sight worse than their faces, deformed by the demons in my dreams; it was Robin. She was screaming and crying, running away from a monster with death in his eyes. She was running away from me and I was going to kill her. I knew, I could feel the thirst burning my throat, wrath pulling at the fibers of my muscles and a mist of madness blinding me, keeping me from backing down. I couldn’t stop, she kept running, I was going to kill her, she kept crying. I couldn’t stop; I didn’t. Metal collided against flesh and fists pulverized bones. I listened to her pleas, her weak attempts to bring me back, but none of them mattered. She was my mission now, she had to die, she had to disappear; she did. When my hands gathered the remains of her body, when her heart was detached from her chest and her eyes silenced by her eyelids, I woke up.

The air got stuck in my lungs, there were no screams or sobs and Robin was lying next to me, my chest constricting when I laid eyes on her serene features, completely unaware of the chaos surrounding us. I had killed her. You had. It was a dream. No. I killed her. You did. Once. Twice. The images of that night rushed their way into my mind, prompting me out the bed, her creamy skin splintering my own and her face full of stains of invisible, unshed blood. It was too much. The excruciating terror. Her sleeping colors. My growing rage. Too much and too real. I had to leave, do a sweep, punch the rage out of my veins, leave it all behind, even her. 

It’s been happening for the last couple of weeks, sleeping or not with her doesn’t help my case, that’s why I’m running like the devil now, distance and cold as the only relief to my agony. I tried to stay this time, pretend that I’m fine for her, have breakfast together like any other day, I really did, and I saw my effort evaporate along with my peace. It’s probably around five in the morning, giving that sunrise is yet to come, and I don’t know when I’ll go back. I need isolation, the freedom to clear up my thoughts and recover from the disgust and guilt. God, I still feel her blood in my hands, a sticky sensation on my palms and the smell of copper making me nauseous. And I keep running, far away from the nightmares and Robin, my summer breeze and rainbow, far away from the safety she provides. Forty minutes later, my feet find themselves in the south, where the apples and marshmallow are a hazy memory, where tall trees replaced atrocious buildings and a clean sky welcomes the sun. Sixty minutes later, Bulgaria is barely few meters away, beyond the railroad, beyond my will, and it would take a twinge of hesitance and weakness to leave again. Leave for two months, for good, leave and never come back. _Come back_. So I turn around.

Whatever I see on the way to the suburbs is misshapen, out of place, but my trained senses let nothing pass unnoticed. The nature of an assassin, or a haunted man. I can no longer tell. Nine floors also disappear under my swift strides and Robin is coming out of her apartment when I come back to her. Her uniform is neatly ironed and her hair is combed in delicate, wild waves of blueness. The makeup doesn’t hide the concern of her eyes and her yellow Converse drag her to meet me eventually. She lifts her head and the fear is plain for me to see. Damn. 

‘Hey’, I whisper. The tiny smile that appears on her mouth ignites a spark of electricity in my body. 

‘Morning’, her voice is hoarse, sadness and insecurity thick in her greeting. Damn me. ‘I– I waited for you but–’.

‘Yeah, sorry ‘bout that’, I smile back and she nods. I take the last steps towards her and her immediate reaction to my proximity is to close the space between us. _I’m back, little bird_. I take her in my arms and breathe in the essence of her hair and skin, both of them grounding me to reality, out of the nightmares, out of the dark. _I came back_. My heart against her cheek, her lips pressed to my jaw. _Back home_. ‘You had breakfast?’, I ask and she buries her face in my chest, muffling a soft “yes”. I pull away to kiss her forehead, a gesture half apology, half curse at my stupidity. I take my time to study her expression, gazing up and down her face; she’s so beautiful in the morning. ‘I’ll see you later then’, she nods again and stands on her toes to kiss my lips, barely a flutter, a brush of heart-shaped pureness. I lean forward to press my lips harder to hers, pouring my guilt and fear in every ounce of force. ‘Have a good day’, she hums a reply, then turns to head downstairs and I miss her already.

I’m trembling by the time she’s out of reach, the images of her shattered body harassing my mind and making me cling to the air around me, lonely and lost. Everything is desolation without her, colorless, cold and strange, and in her presence, everything hurts, it’s full of open wounds and internal bleeding. It’s corrosive, like poison, a disease, and I can’t breathe without it still. Damn it. I’m being pathetic, and I’m sure Robin will ask me about it, if not tonight, the first chance she gets, the issue will be brought up to the table. Like hell I’m going to tell her. I damn well should, I simply won’t. I’ve already said enough, damaged, hurt enough this woman I cannot claim as mine but refuse to let go either. Robin needs me fine, at least, I can try. I busy myself in cleaning my apartment, organize my stuff for the millionth time, take a shower, read and watch videos on Robin’s laptop. I look at my iPod, it says it’s midday and the room is suffocating me, the windows are closing and the doors are locking from outside. I can’t stay here. I have to go and do another sweep, take a long walk at the park or just work out at the abandoned train station. Robin will arrive not so late at evening, maybe a little later, if I’m lucky. She’s no supposed to see me like this and worry even more, that’s why I decide to grab my jacket and cap, head downstairs and get lost in the mass of people walking through the streets. What I need is to avoid being left alone with my thoughts, I must be unable to recall any vision of my nightmares, and the car horns, the music playing out-loud from the inside of a random local and the simultaneous echo of voices work as the perfect cure.

I walk through the green passages in downtown, several men and women are jogging, some others, most of them, are walking fast, talking on their phones or with someone by their side. The sight itself makes me feel better. I sit on one of the benches in the less crowded area and take out my earphones to give the landscape some background music, like Robin does. “ _It’s like being in a movie, you know?_ ”, she said, “ _You give a soundtrack to what’s there, like a movie scene_ ”, I frowned and she laughed. Sometimes is hard for me to fully understand what happens in that funny head of hers, it was until I put into practice her theory that I appreciated it, and she was right. The people didn’t move the same, the cars and clouds played on an imaginary screen, and I enjoyed the landscape more than I expected. Robin taught me how to make a playlist, so I unlock the iPod, put on the earphones and look for the most accurate one. Maybe the 80’s one will do. Robin loves the 80’s.

It’s weird. I hear the songs, I see the people, but both of them are distant, like I’ve been removed from the set. I’d blame the tiredness, mental and physical, I’d blame the lack of peace, I’d blame them all and it would make sense. The thing is, it doesn’t. I’m unable to shake off the idea that this isn’t mine, that it’s not the same to belong than to own something, which is odd and scary, and that’s exactly how I feel. A voice is screaming from the back of my mind, a younger one, telling me the landscape isn’t logical. It begins from people’s clothes to the designs of the cars, from the excess of noise to the shape of the buildings. It’s not just the place that doesn’t belong to me, it’s the time. This time doesn’t belong to me. Images of red lips and long skirts flood my head, images of elegant cars and higher buildings. A bridge, a city near the sea full of posters on the walls of the alleys. _Brooklyn_. I yank off the earphones, interrupting David Bowie’s song, and I grunt, frustrated at the glimpse of that memory. I don’t want to remember now, I want peace, is that too much to ask for?

When I look at the iPod’s screen, it indicates that Robin’s shift must be of about to end, but it’s Tuesday; she has confectionary lessons. God, I hope she’s forgiven me for skipping breakfast with her. I have to head back and prepare dinner to make up for it, and that noodles recipe I saw yesterday seems like a good idea. I put on the earphones and let the music calm me down, trying to dismiss all hateful thoughts and focus on my surroundings. As usual, I analyze every surface, every corner and trace a route of scape, a strategy to attack or, if necessary, formulate a counterattack. Ever the soldier. I memorize the faces, their feet’s direction and what’s in their hands. It’s impossible not to after being used to always look over your shoulder for such a long time, to feel threaten 24/7, and, of course, I’ve gotten better at hiding my apprehension, that doesn’t mean it’s gone. Robin would probably freak out if I tell her that I carry a gun when I go out, hidden in my back under the jacket, and she’d have a heart-attack if she finds out that I sleep with one nightly, except for the nights I sleep with her. I’ve been careful she doesn’t notice, but there’s no way I let go of my loyal, precious handgun. It’s as extension of my body as my arms and legs. By four in the evening, I’m heading back home, not before making a stop at the market and buy some vegetables for the noodles because Robin insists on feeding me healthy food even when I’m assigned to dinner. And she’s stubborn as hell about it.

Mushrooms, carrots and broccoli. That’s it. She can’t complain about it, can she? Damn, I have the feeling that I’ll get a disapproving glare at the lack of vegetables variety. I put on some Stevie Wonder while I prepare our meal, looking at my iPod to follow the instructions playing on the noodles’ video. It’s not that difficult, the rest of the ingredients are added in precise quantities, and by the time Robin knocks, punctual at five o’clock, everything is ready to be served. 

‘Welcome back’, I say as soon as the open door reveals my little bird smiling at me, blue hair and purple nails, dressed in that uniform she doesn’t like, glowing with colorful light, standing still for a brief second, then throwing herself at my arms already waiting for her, where she belongs. She presses a kiss to my lips, urgent and hard, and I welcome the cherished familiarity that comes with it. Home is not home until she’s here. Snickers are muffled by mouths, her hands cupping my face and her body merging with mine is everything that matters now, everything I feel. No nightmares, no tension, no worry. Just Robin and just Bucky. 

‘It’s smells really good’, she praises when we pull apart. I smile wider, pleased by her approval, and hand in hand we walk towards the table. We synchronize to prepare the table, Robin sings “Superstition”, grabbing dishes, glasses and cutlery while I look at her like an idiot, happy and relaxed, utterly mesmerized by her natural beauty. We sit to eat, both of us showing no shame of how hungry we are and she doesn’t bring up any question about the events of this morning. I think she’s letting it slip, or she forgot about it. I pray it’s the second. I love to hear her telling me about her day and Liana’s new way to annoy her, though a smile plays on her features at the mention of the blonde girl. I love to see her throw her head back when she laughs at something I don’t remember saying and the dimples that appear on her cheeks. I love it even when she does glare at me in disapproval for the vegetables situation. She keeps praising my cooking and devours one and a half plate, which is far more than she usually eats. Not that I’m complaining, it’s rather flattering. ‘I shall name you now “Sir Bucky, knight of the noodles”, what do you think?’, I chuckle.

‘Well, it’s thanks to you, actually. You thought about the cooking videos’, I reach for her hand and bring it to my lips, kissing her knuckles in an appreciative gesture. She blushes intensely and clears her throat. 

‘Give yourself some credit’, she says, cupping my jaw and leaning forward. The light of the lamp above us makes her hair looks bluer and her skin lighter, and she’s so beautiful that I’m already breathless. ‘You’re doing great’, we’re still so apart that it hurts to be so close. She’s looking at me through her long, thick eyelashes and my eyes get stuck in her brown irises, then travel down and trace her plumb, heart-shaped mouth just to flick back up. A hint, an invitation. It would be a waste of oxygen to articulate a “thank you”, and it’s not a problem to lean further and meet her in the middle of the small table to show her my gratefulness in a more accurate way.

I will never get tired of this taste of her, pureness and freedom, now mingled with grape juice. The table hinders and I hate it, but she seems to read my mind and pulls apart to quickly stand up and run into my arms. In one swift motion, she’s sitting on my lap and my hands are exploring the covered skin of her back as her fingers get lost in my hair. Deep inside, what I yearn for is to feel nothing but bareness, rip apart cloth and dig my nails into a smooth surface, let fingertips dance over my veins and kiss away scars. I want her. All of her. What the hell. We break the kiss, resting our foreheads against the other’s and brushing our noses lovingly, an innocent game of reassurance that grounds our dumbfounded senses. 

‘Now’, I peck her upturned nose and she giggles. ‘Dessert’, because I’m dying to take out the ice-cream she bought specially for me: “New York Super Fudge Chunk”, from Ben & Jerry’s, which is, according to a very serious statement of Robin, the most wonderful, mind-blowing ice-cream of the universe. I trust her with my life, of course I’d trust her with such important issue. 

‘Thought you’d never say it’, we chuckle in unison, a melody that rings in my skull and fills it with millions of little birds. Little robins everywhere. 

The ice-cream is beyond delicious, it’s dense and creamy, not cloying nor taffy. The dark and white chocolate bites and almonds make me hum and close my eyes in pleasure, rejoicing in the perfectly balanced flavor. Robin gives a smug grin, pulling an “I told you” face that I playfully answer by smearing her cheek with the spoon and lean to kiss-leak the stain of chocolate off her skin. She squeals, the funniest sound I’ve ever heard, and we laugh so loud that it rumbles in each wall of the room. Everything it’s easier around her, it has always been, however now that we’re in a different kind of relationship, whatever the fuck that means, to be teasing, jokey, to kiss her senseless and being too much of a helpless, stupid romantic comes naturally to me. I can’t help it; Robin is adorable and beautiful and funny as hell. We pick up the dirty dishes and put them on the sink to wash later because it’s movie time. Since we’re in my apartment, the couch will replace her bed. She approaches the TV and kneels in front of the VHS player as I sit.

‘Is this the movie you told me about?’, I ask, head on the couch arm and legs outstretched along the cushions. Robin’s been excited about a Disney movie these days, she wouldn’t tell me more about it, only that she loved it, and, in consequence, that same excitement grew into curiosity from me. Apparently, my five-day wait has come to an end thanks to her own enthusiasm.

‘That is’, she takes out the tape from its box and turns both the TV and the player on. ‘I used to see it a lot when I was a kid’, she chuckles dryly and turns to me, her eyes suddenly too clear and vulnerable. I frown.

‘Why?’.

‘I’m not dropping any spoilers here, wait and see’, she stands up and grabs the remote, avoiding the question.

‘Okay’, I sigh, defeated. ‘C’me here’, I open my arms for her to climb on the couch with me and she jumps in, happy and eager. Apples and marshmallow is better than ice-cream. She snuggles into my chest and I bring her leg to rest across my abdomen; our favorite position. At least mine.

The movie’s title appears on the screen and soon, both of us are totally focused on it. The first scene it’s quite moving, there are two families, gorillas and humans, and the song playing talks about their different lives. And… no. The baby gorilla gets killed by a leopard. From that moment on, I’m fully immersed in the story, because this is supposed to be a kid’s movie, and they killed a baby. Not happy with that, the same leopard kills the human parents, and I’m starting to question Disney’s freaking method to make movies. It seems the story will get better after the mama gorilla finds the human baby and raises him as her own child, against the dad’s orders. Tarzan, she calls him. Robin hums the songs and I feel the vibrations of her chest sending waves of delight through mine; she’s enjoying every part, laughing without restraint at Tantor and Terk’s interactions and I share her joy. Now I understand why she was so excited about watching it. Later, something unexpected happens; Tarzan meets more humans. Tarzan meets Jane, and I’m screwed up. This Jane girl is all Robin, the facial expressions, drawn or not, are very similar to hers, even the goddamn adorable clumsiness, and fuck me, adult Tarzan is _slightly_ comparable to me. He saves her from the baboons, I’m amused by the way they meet each other, and then it hits me; they’re like us. Tarzan identifies himself with Jane, as the first being he can relate to, he too is fascinated, but when they pair up their palms, I’m paralyzed. The hand thing, the secret bow. It’s us. Jesus fucking Christ. It has to be a joke, there’s no logical explanation for this, the only one I can think of is that Robin did it because of the movie, it’s a little scary, yet it’s amusing to see such likeness. I fight the urge to straighten up and lean forward to the TV, I tighten my arms around Robin’s body instead and we become a tangled, quiet pair of breathings and heartbeats.

Jane and Tarzan have a song, the lyrics make me squirm under her and endless pictures of our life together replace the ones on the screen: “ _Whatever you do, I’ll do it too, show me everything and tell me how_ ”. Robin teaching me how to take pictures with her instant camera. “ _It all means something and yet nothing to me_ ”. Listening to The Rolling Stones for the first time at Robin’s apartment. “I can see there’s so much to learn, it’s all so close and yet so far”. Borrowing Robin’s boombox and cassettes. “ _I see myself as people see me. I just know there’s something bigger out there_ ”. The memories that I don’t own and the ones I do messing with my head. “ _I wanna know, can you show me? I wanna know about these strangers like me_ ”. Palm to palm; our secret vow. “ _Tell me more, please, show me. Something’s familiar about these strangers like me_ ”. The day I accepted Robin’s help. “ _Every gesture, every move that she makes, makes me feel like never before_ ”. Every single time I look at her, touch her. “ _Why do I have this growing need to be beside her?_ ”. The very question of my very existence. “ _These emotions I never knew, of some other world far beyond this place, beyond the trees, above the clouds_ ”. The way I feel about her, for her, with her. “ _I see before me a new horizon!_ ”. How I see the world through her wondering eyes. “ _Come with me now to see my world, where there’s beauty beyond your dreams. Can you feel the things I feel, right now, with you? Take my hand, there’s a world I need to know…_ ”. Robin asking me to stay with her forever, Robin kissing me and looking at me like I’m the brightest star of all.

Tarzan leaves his family, when Kala takes him to his old house, he walks out dressed with his father’s suit and I hear a weak sob muffled against my shirt. I look down at her and there are tears glistening on her cheeks.

‘Robin?’, my voice is thick with worry, but she doesn’t answer and sobs harder. I glance at the scene playing in front of us and I get it immediately; a mother saying goodbye to her son. _You’ll always be in my heart_. Of course she’d think about her mother. My poor, little bird. I don’t say another word and reduce to pepper kisses over her forehead and the top of her head, rubbing her arms in a soothing manner, pulling her closer. She keeps whimpering for a while until the ship’s scene where Tarzan and the rest of the crew get captured by Clayton. I saw that one coming, the son of a bitch just wanted to find the gorillas to sell them. Bastard.

I’m relieved they way things are turning out for everyone, except when Kerchak is shot, that I resent the most because him and Tarzan started to understand each other. I’m honestly confused when Jane sails off to London, I thought, hoped, she’d stay with Tarzan. Her dad is hilarious, and wise as he advices her to stay and be happy with the man she loves. Damn it, Barnes. Can’t you be more ridiculous? Does having an actual girlfriend after being brainwashed for seventy years makes you come up with cheesy thoughts? I don’t want to know the answer. The end is pretty much what I expected; a happy ending with Jane kissing Tarzan, that also reminds me of the first time Robin kissed me, and staying with him in the jungle, both of their families with them. Am I to have a happy ending with my little bird too? Am I worthy of it? Damn again. Credits start to roll, but none of us move a finger. I’m torn between squeezing her tiny body even more to make her feel safe and cared for or guide her face towards mine and kiss the hell out of her to make her forget her previous sadness for good. 

‘Someone wrote a story about us’. That’s what comes out of my mouth, my goddamn brain making its own choices at the best timing.

‘What do you mean?’, she looks up to me, her eyes are swollen and confused.

‘They way she teaches him everything about the new world’, I explain nonchalantly and she rests her chin on my chest. I smile and lean down to brush my nose against hers. ‘How she throws at him to kiss him’, and kiss her softly, earning a chuckle from her. ‘The hand thing… Did you– did you do it that first time because of the movie?’, my question is honest. She frowns and pouts, pondering on her next words.

‘I hadn’t thought about it’.

‘It was kinda scary’, we both chuckle, a trace of gloom in the ring. I don’t want her to be sad, never, not while I still breathing, and although I can’t stop it, I always run into the frenzy to fix it.

‘Yeah, I guess so’, she shrugs and we straighten up, my arms keep her from moving too far and she snuggles against my side. I tilt my head and lock my gaze on the screen, not fully listening to the song playing in the background. 

‘You know? Maybe I wasn’t raised by gorillas, but I’m like your savage moron in loincloth’, I blurt out, her head snapping up to look at me in shock. When I turn to her, there’s a strong blush on her cheeks and sparks dancing in her eyes. Got her. ‘And you’re my Jane’, a smile at her and she turns impossibly red, hiding her face in the crook of my neck.

‘Oh, God’, I hear her laugh, full of mortification. Adorable as hell. 

‘What?’, I quirk and eyebrow and I whisper to her ear playfully. ‘Would you be my Jane?’, she laughs louder, throwing her head back. ‘Jane must stay with Tarzan, remember?’, I point out, making her snort and shake her head in fond exasperation.

‘Robin stays with Bucky’, she mutters, half lidded eyes shinning with endearment. She cups my face and kisses me, still laughing, still happy. We end up tangled into each other on the couch, her legs straddling my things, squeezing them when I nip at her bottom lip every now and then, fingers tugging at my hair. My hands play with the hem of her shirt as my vision is coated by her rainbowness behind my eyelids. The moment lasts a couple of minutes, each second of her “New York Super Fudge Chunk” taste-like is infinite, more delicious than the original because is mingled with her own taste that I can never quite place. Her lips move mildly, torturing me with their lethargic pace, her nails scratch my nape, tearing apart my lungs, and her heart is thudding so hard against my chest that it heavens like a feather. When we pull away, breathless and lightheaded, she smiles softly and I bath her face with quick pecks, prompting her to burst into giggles.

‘Now I get Tarzan’s hair joke, though’, I grimace between kisses.

‘Speaking of’, she places a last, chase kiss to my lips. ‘Today’s the day’, she announces, her expression and voice firm. I know that look; she’s determined to do something, whether I like it or not, and there’s no way she changes her mind. I have a bad feeling about this. ‘You promised you’d get a haircut this month, and no, you’re not talking me out of this’, before I begin to argue, she stands up to head towards he bathroom. I knew I could only delay it so much, the haircut issue has been looming up my door for some time, against my best attempts to avoid it, besides, Robin wouldn’t let go either. I don’t get why does it bother her, to be honest, my hair is not that long, not to me, at least. Fine, it’s already resting over my shoulders and it’s getting a little frustrating to comb it in the morning, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. In my opinion, the haircut isn’t necessary, Robin, however, thinks otherwise. ‘Bucky, come in here, please!’, she calls from the bathroom and I reluctantly stand up, grunting under my breath in the process. If Robin hears me complain, she’s capable of leaving my sorry ass without dessert tomorrow, and that includes any kind of kissing. No way in hell that’s happening.

But when I see her standing with a towel, a hair comb and the goddamn scissors on her hands, I hesitate for a moment. Come on, Barnes, man up. You can’t be intimidated by a freaking haircut, you, The Winter Soldier, The Fist of Hydra. It’s not even that I’m afraid of pointy things, or that seeing them triggers dangerous memories. I’m pass that. I simply don’t see a point in cutting my hair, why do I have to look decent? Robin didn’t seem to have a problem until it got “too long”, she said she liked my hair long, then why? Confused and uncomfortable, I sit on the toilet, and Robin gets to work. I don’t know if she has experience on these things, I suppose she does, given that I hear a steady cut of the scissors and see her catching the dismissed hair locks. Jesus. I start to count the seconds, closing my eyes and trying to relax my body. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. There’s a lot of hair in her hands. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. How long is it going to take? I’m starting to feel anxious, the proximity of the scissors to my neck disturbs my nerves, making me shift on the toilet and earning an irritated sigh from her.

‘Stop squirming, Bucky’, she commands, half stern, half amused. I’m losing it, I want it to be over before I snap and run out of the bathroom. Another endless count of seconds passes by and she’s not done still. I fidget and my breathing quickens. Robin’s quietness is more unsettling than her tiny hands cutting lock after lock of my hair. It can’t be that much, can it? The anxiety is pretty noticeable because Robin’s pace increases, putting down the scissors and standing in front of me to admire her final work. When she smiles contently, I let out a heavy sigh I didn’t notice I was holding. ‘Look at you’, she nods at the mirror over the sink, cleaning the area where the torture took place and I stand up, dragging my feet to face a not-so-different person in the reflection. I could tell she cut an inch and a half. That was it, she took hours to cut one and a half inch. ‘See? Your handsomeness remains intact’, she stands on her toes to kiss my cheek. I purse my lips, but end up smiling affectedly to not make her think I don’t appreciate her gesture. 

‘We don’t want you to stop thinking I’m handsome, do we?’, I say and give her a lop-sided smile. She pats my back and start to head out of the bathroom. Not so fast, little bird. 

I snake my arms around her before she walks out, making her yelp in surprise and burst into a booming laughter as I tickle her neck with my stubbled jaw. She hates it when I do it, proof of that is that she fights to escape my tight grip and threatens to send me to my apartment without good-night kiss, but she loves it too, because she hasn’t stop laughing. She’s shaking and begging me to stop; I won’t. Her inker bell laugh is ringing in my ears and there’s nothing I love most, because she sounds happy, like there are no ghosts and demons in her past, she sounds healed, like there wasn’t a scar in the precious skin of her back. She sounds like her, entirely her. I loosen my grip and let her turn around to crash her mouth against mine in the fiercest of kisses, channeling the adoration I feel for her. Robin, the girl who gave me a part of her own life and world, the girl who offered me help without me knowing why, the same girl I hurt, _killed_ , and then left for two months. The girl who keeps asking me to come back to her and stay forever. 

You’re far from lucky, Barnes. You’re blessed, you bastard. 

‘You have to take a shower’, I hum, muffling what she said with my kisses. ‘Bucky!’, she chuckles when I tighten my arms around her, reluctant to break apart. She cups my head, pulling me backwards forcefully to catch her breath, her chest raises and falls in heavy intakes of air and her lips are red and swollen. Beautiful as hell. ‘Go get a shower, Tarzan’, she commands, her blown pupils betraying her words. I narrow my eyes, but let her go to head towards the door. There’s always tomorrow. I follow her and when she turns around, the corner of her mouth is twisted in a way I haven’t seen before, it’s dark and mysterious. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow’, she says under the threshold, her voice is husky and deep. Instead of asking, I take her hand and bring it up to my mouth again.

‘Good night, my beautiful Jane’, I whisper, kissing her knuckles without tearing my eyes off her. She smiles.

‘Good night, handsome savage moron in loincloth’, her reply is strangled by an invisible pressure. I quirk an eyebrow when I see her shoulders tense as I brush my lips over her fingertips. There’s this heat emanating from her that has a sweet and salty smell. She turns around and her hand slides off my grip, mine lingering on the empty place she left behind. What just happened? I turn and lay on my back against the door, inhaling the remains of the apple’s essence, closing my eyes to keep her face drawn in my mind. _Robin_. She holds my meaningless life in her tiny hands and I wonder if she even knows. 

Another night full of nightmares erases the traces of her familiar touch, her blueness and rainbow smile. I find myself muffling desperate cries against my pillow, gasping and swimming in a pool of my own sweat. Shredded sheets around me, cold air burning my lungs, the buzzing in my head yelling at me that I have to wake up, but I already am. Every blink brings back the terror of the loneliness, every tick of the clock sinks me down the mattress, the room becomes a cage I have to break free from and the doorknob is being turned by my hands in the next blink. I’m running away again. Robin died tonight too, a gunshot straight to her forehead. It was clean and outrageously satisfying to see, the gunfire still filling my nostrils, haunting me on my way out of the darkness. Maybe it was a dream or maybe I did kill her, and I’m too much of a coward to lean into her door to prove me wrong. The stairs seem endless steps I keep tripping on, falling on my knees and getting lost in the floors. I lose the count of how many times I fall, I lose the count of how many times she has died. My muscles respond to automatic commands, my limbs are trembling with such violence that the whole earth rumbles, her blood is fresh on my hands and the light fading from her eyes clouds my vision, making it a miracle to make it to the streets. I drag myself far away, as far as the pain and fear let me, the icy breeze at three a.m. reminds me that my clothes are wet, sticking to my body like a second skin. I’ve looked worse, I try to convince me. _Lies_. Everything is a lie. It’s a beautiful lie. My life with her, her smile, our peace and our happiness. I’ve been so naïve, so stupid for believing I could get to live, to be normal and get back what was stolen from me. There’s a prize for what I did, and it’s her the only thing I have to pay with. It’s unfair, because her soul deserves freedom, her body deserves to be treated with reverence, to be worshiped and adored, her heart deserves to be healed by gentle hands. My little bird deserves to fly in the brightest sky of summer, not to fall into the snow painted red. Then I remember that she’s a robin; the winter robin.

The sun starts to crawl its way between the mountains behind me. I’m standing closer to the border, closer to the final good-bye without a kiss, closer to everything I cannot give her. But I turn around and head back to the city. I keep coming back because I’m selfish and I need her, because a life without her is my worst nightmare. I delay as much as I can, stopping to contemplate the sunrise, to catch my breath from a fatigue I don’t really feel. I walk for hours until I reach our building, our home, and the stairs in front of me remain a mess of steps I don’t want to take. It hurts to come back. 

Robin’s coming out of her apartment as I reach our flat, concern and sadness contorting her features yet again. This is why it hurts. My silence and distance, the lonesome mornings I force her to endure, my silence to her quiet questions. I’m a parasite that drains her life and she keeps feeding me with what’s left of it. She lifts her head, barely acknowledging my presence, her gaze crystalized and empty.

‘I’m sorry, I lost track of time’, I hurry to sigh out an old excuse she lets me speak. She nods and looks down, accepting the apology and swallowing my lies.

‘It’s okay’, she shrugs, locking her door. I fight the urge to stab my heart, inflict pain on myself for causing her distress, get on my knees and implore her forgiveness, kiss her breathless until her fear fades away. I’d do anything to bring the joy we shared last night. It’s almost like she forgot about it, like it didn’t happen. I step forward to take her in my arms, but she turns so fast that I don’t get the chance to do it. ‘I’ll see you later’, she smiles at the floor, brown eyes evading mine. She walks pass me and runs downstairs. 

‘Have a good day’, my wish echoes in the space of her absence. Did she know she took half my soul with her?

I drag my feet back inside my apartment, covering my face with my hands in shame and frustration. We were having a great time yesterday night, I made her laugh, I kissed her for ages, for ever, we ate ice-cream and she cut my hair. We were complete, ordinary, human. Then the goddamn nightmares washed her colors off my fingers and lips, they left me bare, wearing nerves around my chest. I realize I’m beyond exhausted the moment I lay eyes on the couch, the cushions looking beyond inviting and I collapse on them, one arm and one leg hanging from the edges as my muscles relax, my senses drifting into slumber. There are no nightmares, no dreams, just a sinking mind, layers of black absorbing thoughts and a wintery wind making neurons vibrate. I think my brain is also exhausted. 

It’s five o’clock when I open my eyes, feeling dizzy, my muscles and my stomach resent the inactivity and food deprivation. I hear quiet steps at the other side of the wall; Robin’s here. I pick up the smell of what she’s preparing, something salty, and something sweet too, the mixture makes me frown. I get up, heading to the bathroom to wash my face and I change into clean clothes before walking out of the apartment. My knuckles hover over Robin’s door, hesitant, afraid that she’s not willing to see me after practically abandoning her this morning. To many people, it would be ridiculous, they’d wonder why is it such a big deal if we don’t have breakfast together, or avoiding certain subjects out of awkwardness, but we’re not like many people, they couldn’t understand that it hurts to do normal things alone, to put any kind of distance between us. For us, sharing time and feelings is a reminder that, indeed, we’re not alone anymore, that there’s someone who cares for us, someone who makes us theirs and makes us belong to a world that rejected our existence. Is that simple, yet is not. I take a deep breath and knock.

She opens the door. _She comes in colors everywhere_. Her huge, brown eyes are sad and lost, her skin is bright and healthy. _She combs her hair_. She’s no longer wearing her uniform, instead a pair of dark jeans and a flannel shirt. Barefoot, like that day I talked to her for the first time in her balcony. Her hair is messy, waves of blue framing her childish face. _She’s like a rainbow_. She leaves me breathless. 

‘ _Buongiorno principessa_ ’, I say, a tiny smile, her smile, creeping its way to my mouth. I see her shoulders relax, her lips quiver, and I barely have time to catch her as she throws herself into my already open arms. She clings to me with all her strength, burying her fingers into my hair and wrapping her legs around my waist. My hands press her flush against my torso, I inhale her essence and close my eyes, my arms tightening around her, just as needy. ‘I missed you’, I whisper, hidden in the crook of her neck, feeling her shiver as the goosebumps are being raised on her skin. She pulls away and kisses me with such intensity that my knees almost buckle, it makes my bones feel spongy, my mouth run dry and wet at the same time, and my mind is invaded by her colors. I kiss her back without the previous hesitation and wen we pull apart to catch our breaths, she’s smiling at me; my heart jumps inside my chest.

‘I missed you too’, she says and I chuckle. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against hers, pecking her heart-shaped lips one last time before settling her down on the floor. I look at the table; she made shwarma, and I smell something in the oven as well. We eat with every day’s joy, she makes me smile and she laughs. She’s deciding to forget about her questions, giving me what I need to keep moving, and I appreciate her gesture because I’m not going to let her know about my nightmares, not yet. Once we finish, she proudly introduces me the new recipe she learned at her cooking lessons, a cheesecake of some sorts which name I struggle to remember, sliding a piece and serving it on a plate that I don’t waste time to sink my fork into. Her enthusiasm is gone when I grimace at the taste of the cake; it isn’t fully cooked. ‘What do you think?’, she asks, worryingly.

‘Um…’, I swallow and clear my throat, hawking because of the weird consistency. ‘It’s good’, of course she doesn’t believe me. The dislike must be printed on my expression.

‘I swear I’m not trying to poison you’, she says, frowning in disappointment.

‘You’ll need more than half-cooked Jelly-Fluffy…’, I trail, unable to finish the name.

‘Japanese Cheesecake’.

‘You’ll need more to do that’, I take a sip of water to wash the remains of the cake. ‘It’s not that bad’, I try to assure, but fail when she glares at me, asking me not to keep lying. She removes the plate and the cake, placing them on the sink to start washing the dishes. I sigh, standing up and walking towards her, wrapping my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder. ‘It’ll get better, little bird’, I whisper and kiss her cheek. She simply nods.

The tension grows, talking and touching becomes awkward, we settle into an imposed silence that shouldn’t be there. We shouldn’t feel this apart and a new wave of guilt forces me out of her apartment after a tight smile and a cold good-night kiss. 

Robin dies by my hands tonight. I wake up in a burst of cries and her blood drying my throat, I feel the sting of her neck cracking under my grip and her nails dig into my flesh, begging, calling my name just to be ignored by a motorized conscience. Even though my eyes are wide open and my senses fully awaken, my mind is drifting further away from my body, like the demons taking over it are winning ground and are aiming to conquer me completely, depriving me from willpower and thought. It’s like I’m possessed, out of control, out of this world. What willpower? I’ve been used to kill, to make myself invincible and invisible, I’ve been stolen the idea that I have a mind and body of my own. What control? I’m The Winter Soldier, a man turned into a weapon who isn’t supposed to think, to feel, to remember. What world? The one world I belonged to is long gone with the war and the ice, the time and place I walked through has been erased from my memories, preserved on those who call my name in the middle of the dark. They are the demons and I’m the ghost.

I stand up and run, and run and run. My lungs are jaded, my muscles are twisted around my bones and I find myself again side to side with the promise of Robin’s freedom. The edge between what she deserves and what I need, a fine line between right and wrong. I want to see her fly through the sky I cannot clear for her, I wish I could make it a gift to her, a last present, the certainty of a normal life. I feel tears run down my cheeks, the impotence and wrath inside of me is too much to take back, my legs are sore and it’s getting late. I’m still there, falling from the edge, darkness and light blinding my sight; I’m not coming back. _Come back_. Robin’s sad eyes and moonlight skin. _Come back to me_. Robin’s voice telling me to stop. Robin. Robin walking out of her apartment. _Robin_. Robin walking away from me.

‘Hey’, my voice is distant to her ears and when I try to step closer, she backs down. Time stands still. ‘I’m so–’.

‘Don’t worry’, she cuts me off, like the sharpest of knifes. ‘Here’, she practically throws a couple of Tupperware at me and runs downstairs. I choke with the knot of my throat, suffocated by the isolation.

I get in my apartment, slamming the door closed behind me. I kick any piece of furniture I bump into, fighting back new tears of anger, yanking my hair and gasping desperately. I have no right to feel broken-hearted. I earned this, her vacillation, the wary look of her eyes and the fearful crease on her forehead. I’m not talking to her about something that concerns to her, I’m hiding what she must know, like I do every single day I keep the information about Irina and The Red Room from her. I’m being an asshole to the one person I should be the kindest. I’m an ungrateful bastard, the monster who kills her in his dreams and it’s unable to man the fuck up and tell her about it. The rest of the day is a blur, I’m unaware of my surroundings, yet I’m hypersensitive to all that’s not happening; the sun orbiting around the city, making it evening before it’s midday, the hours turning into seconds and reality materializing in dreams. I hear her steps on the stairs at some point, her hands taking out her keys and open her door, then I hear a heavy sigh. I should talk to her, apologize and try to make up to her, but I can’t bring myself to do it because I’m tired. I’m tired of using a worn-out apology and force her to accept it and keep acting like nothing’s wrong. If I’m tired, Robin must be of about to kick me in the balls.

I gather enough strength to walk out of the room, not paying a second glance at her door and leave the building in less than a minute. The fresh air suits me well, my rig cage spreads as I breathe in and streetlights guide me across the city. I waste enough oxygen and energy trying to soothe the anxiety running through my veins, and when I’m about to go further, I turn on my heels, heading back, damn it, heading back again. It’s impossible to stay away, the echo of her pleas rumbles inside my skull with such intensity that my ears start to bleed every time I run from her. _Come back to me_. It’s a blessing. _Stay with me forever_. And a curse. 

The same steps I took are taking me backwards to the building, then the staircase and the front of my door. It’s like a movie playing in reverse. The moment I unlock my door, Robin pops out of hers and puts her hand over mine to stop my motions. My heart skips a beat at her touch, like my body has forgotten how does it feel. We freeze right there, with my lungs about to burst and her tears about to fall, and I hear her gulp. 

‘I know something’s up, you’ve been– we haven’t had breakfast together in days’, her voice is neutral, surprisingly so, and I feel the violent trembles of her body through the gentleness of her hand. ‘And I hear you at night’, we both flinch at her words. I turn to face her, but I’m unable to dare lay eyes on her because I’m beyond ashamed and afraid. ‘I’m worried about you’, she whispers, her fingers drawing circles over my knuckles, coaxing me to face what I know will be a broken expression. ‘Bucky, talk to me, please’, she pleads, her voice finally breaking, a sob smothering her throat. Like my hands did in my dreams. I close my eyes tightly.

‘I can’t’, I whimper. As I was expecting, when I lift my head and look at her, I meet the once joyful features now wrecked by pain. ‘Not about this’, I watch the hope die in the brown of her eyes.

‘Why?’, I can barely hear her, yet her question is drilling my brain.

‘I can’t’, I repeat, imploring her to stop. ‘I’m sorry’, she drops her arm, nodding and turning around. She’s too tired, as much as me, and I open my door to escape from the echo of our agony.

 _Forgive me, little bird_.

It’s black and red outside. Snow falls and buries me in the depths of metal and ice. I’m falling all over again, I see a hand not quick enough reaching out to me and I hear a man calling my name as I’m being swallowed by the cold. I open my eyes and descry unknown faces dragging me somewhere I don’t want to go, my whole body is on fire and I can’t let out cries to break the memory. I’m mute and blind, desperate to jump out of the picture and climb back to my senses. Nobody’s there to help me, the hand slipped from my fingers and although I’m screaming to the top of my lungs, nobody will listen. Then I see her walk away from me, stepping inside her apartment. She said “I don’t want you to be near me”, and I did nothing to keep her by my side, I didn’t make promises I’m still breaking, I let her go and then I hear her cry, curled up on my bed, begging me to come back to her. I leave, I abandon her in more ways I actually do.

Every face is plastered on the walls of my mind, they have different eyes, mouths and noses, but they soon become a mass of unrecognizable singularity. I know them, and I forget them at the same time they pierce the bricks concealing the truth. _Bucky?_ Steve. _I’m with you till the end of the line_. White and blue stars around us. A train. The fall. _James?_ Natalia. _I think I love you_. Blood and sweat between us. Precious Natalia. Deadly Natalia. _Bucky?_ Robin. Sunset smile. Summer breeze and rainbow. _Come back to me_. She’s squirming under my body and my metal hand is pressing a knife against her throat. _Please_ , don’t. Her cheeks are wet and her eyes red. How long have I been pressing? _It’s me_. Her fingers touch my jaw; it’s strange and familiar. Something I remember forgetting. _Bucky, come back_. I can’t stop and she cries harder. How long has she been crying? _Please_. She begs one last time before I cut her throat from side to side, a crimson river pouring out of the fine line I draw over moonlight, creamy skin. _No_. I snap out of it just to see her choke on her own blood, her coughs splashing my face and bathing me in terror. _ROBIN!_ And suddenly, we’re transported to that day I killed her, when her heart stopped beating and she stopped breathing for a minute, the day I lost her for longer than two months. I look down at her; she’s gone. _No_. I shake my head. Wake up. I cup her face and I kiss her bloody lips. _Wake up_. I cradle her against my chest, rocking back and forth. _No_. I cry harder than she did, I beg louder that she did. _Wake up_. But she’s gone.

I wake up between screams, the room quavers and I try frantically to take a hold of a piece of air. I don’t know if I’m spinning around the world or the world is spinning around me, I manage to run towards the bathroom to throw up the emptiness of my stomach, bile burning my throat and blood flowing out of my nose. My head is buzzing, I’m numb and breathless. I stay next to the toilette from endless minutes, letting the blood run down and wet my shirt until I can’t bear anything, not the barriers, not pain, not the color of the night. I stand up and stumble out of my apartment through the door that leads to the balcony.

I don’t know how I make it to Robin’s balcony, but I’m knocking at her window in the next blink of my eyes, metal knuckles breaking glass. Shit. Robin’s hurried movements are more comforting than they should be, it means that I succeeded and woke her up, because it’s a sing that she is alive; thanks fucking God. She struggles to open the door, and once she does, the image of me practically hanging from the threshold leaves her outraged.

‘What–?’.

‘Can I– can I stay with you?’, I cut her off, but I’m so weak that I crumble to her feet before I get enough time to explain.

‘Bucky!’, she exclaims, fully alarmed. ‘Oh, God. What happened?!’, no, she’s pretty much panicked. ‘Bucky, do you hear me?’, she knows I can’t answer and I feel her kneel beside me. She tries to turn me over, unsuccessfully and moves my hair out of my face, leaning closer to my ear. ‘I need your help, come on’, I grunt while I attempt to stand back up, which I achieve rather clumsily. Robin puts my arm around her shoulders to provide some support, we crawl inside, tripping on several times and she settles me down the mattress as carefully as she can.

The sound of things moving is distant, I pick up some of her whispering, however, I’m far from understanding. I’m wasted. Robin joins me no longer after and cover us with the blankets without another word. As tired as I am, I turn around and bury my face in her chest, wrapping her tiny figure with the remains of my will and strength. And out of nowhere, I start crying, mumbling apologies, begging her to stay with me. Stay with me forever. She shushes me and runs her palms up and down my back, soothing away any fear sticking to my flesh. _Bayu-bayushki-bayu nye lozhisya na krayu. Pridyot serenkiy volchok I ukhvatit za bochok_. That song, her song. The lullaby I heard her singing on a rainy day, when we were strangers, almost neighbors, almost friends. _On ukhvatit za bochok I potashchit vo lesok, pod rakitovyi kustok_. It took us so much to get where we are, me clinging to her like a child, her singing me to sleep. The lyrics become a soft humming, her hands pull me closer until our souls are merging, and I don’t know the precise moment I drift into slumber.

The shelter of her embrace chases away the nightmares, she gives me peace and rest. When wake up, sunrays peak from behind the purple curtains, I’m still nested between her arms and her calm breathing serves as sedative to my inner wounds. Apple and marshmallow invade my lungs, it heals them, blue fire and summer breeze ignite my spirit and I recover what I thought was lost for good. I take a deep breath and snuggle closer, searching for the warmest corner of her chest. I stay there for another hour, the smell of dried blood corrupts her sweet and familiar one, pushing me off her side and off the bed. I don’t avoid looking at myself in the mirror, and I regret not doing it because I look like shit; big, dark circles under my eyes, pale skin and almost blue lips. The dried blood I smelt is now a huge brown stain on my shirt, and I curse at myself for barging into Robin’s apartment in this state. I should have been stronger, I should have resisted more and face her when I’m not looking like a fucking psychopath. Damn you, Barnes. Although it’s nasty, I don’t take off my shirt because I have nothing here to change into, and wash my face, neck and hands, appreciating some cleanness.

‘Bucky?’, I hear Robin’s call from the bedroom and I rush back, not wanting to worry her even more. I find her sitting on the bed, holding the blankets up to cover her chest. She looks relieved to see me, but her features sadden at my lethargic sight. ‘I thought you–’, she doesn’t have to say it out loud, I know what she thought. She stands up and we walk towards each other, closing the distance that’s hurting like hell between us. I cup her face and lean to rest my forehead against hers. ‘What’s going on?’, her tone is pure supplication. ‘Tell me, please’, she buries her fingers into my hair, speaking against my mouth. I close my eyes, trying to forget the pleas I heard in my dreams that are similar to these. ‘Please’, I can taste her despair. She deserves to know. Now. I owe her that.

I gulp and look right into her.

‘I’ve been having nightmares’, I confess, the heavy, unsaid truth it’s venom on my tongue. Her expression softens and then asks tentatively.

‘Steve?’, I shake my head. ‘Hydra?’, she inquires again and her breath hitches on her throat at the mention of another name. ‘Natalia?’, there’s fear in the way she says it, and I hate to force her to do it.

‘No, I–’, I sigh in exasperation. ‘They’re about… you, it’s– God, I can’t even–’, she shushes me and her hands travel to my cheeks, her thumbs drawing circles over the heated surface.

‘It’s okay’, she utters. Damn it, Robin.

‘No, it’s not okay!’, I pull away, maybe a little too harsh, and she jumps back, ready to run if I lose control. The anger floods my chest and I can’t help but raise my tone at her. ‘Stop telling me that because it’s not! Do you think it’s okay if I dream about killing you?! Night after night, I see myself pulling the trigger, I feel the knife digging into your flesh, I see– I see my hands choking you like–’, I can’t make it to the end of the sentence. God knows it’s way too painful. ‘I can’t stand it, it’s– it’s too much, Robin’, I wish she could see, hear what I’m trying not to say. ‘It’s too much’, I utter, burned-out and lost. I look down because I can’t stand holding her gaze anymore, her concern is piercing my bones and twisting my muscles. ‘Every time I touch you, I’m afraid I haven’t woken up and–’, I close my hands into iron fists, fighting the urge to punch something. ‘If I hurt you again…’, I trail.

‘You’re hurting me now’, her statement makes my head snap up in shock. ‘I know I told you you didn’t have to tell me, and I know I can’t do enough to help you the way you need, but you have to at least write it, even if it’s horrible, you have to get it out somehow’.

‘I can’t write this’, I argue, the mere thought being disgusting, aberrant. ‘Whenever I think of it, it’s worse than being close to you’, my poor explanation only feeds her sensible nerves and she scoffs.

‘So will you just stay away? Will you leave again?’, there it is. The reason I’ve been sneaking up before breakfast, the reason that delays my return and enlarges the crease my nightmares did to us. My lack of response is the only answer she needs to drop her shoulders and narrow her eyes, suspicious of what we already know. She caught me. ‘You thought about it, didn’t you?’, I’m not sure if it’s a full question. She sounds hurt, accusing.

‘You have to understand–’, I try; she’s having none of that.

‘No! _You_ understand that I’m tired of feeling like you’re one step out of my life every time this happens’, she’s demanding something I cannot give her. I look down. ‘You promised!’, she points out, tearing my ears apart, frantic and ruined, and we’re both disintegrating. ‘You promised…’, her voice breaks and she starts crying. God fucking damn it. _See what you’ve done?_ Robin’s crying. _Look at her!_

‘I’m sorry’, that’s all I say, but the words have been spoken so many times that they’ve lost any relevancy.

‘I don’t want you to be sorry, I want you to stay!’, she insists, a furious weep in each word.

‘But what if I hurt you like that day?! You’re going to push me away again and–’.

‘YOU’RE THE ONE PUSHING ME AWAY!’, she yells and the room breaks in half. It was a like thunder, an earthquake that unmasked a rupture I didn’t see between us. She covers her mouth to muffle heavier sobs, she’s trembling and the tears are a waterfall running down her cheeks. I realize there are tears at the brim of my eyes too. ‘You’re always running away from me and I can’t–’, another whimper drowns her words. ‘I can’t do this anymore’. _No. Please, don’t_. ‘I can’t– just– just go’. _Robin, please_. ‘Just go’, she shakes her head and turns around, covering her full face with her hands. I think I heard our hearts fall and shatter against the floor.

Robin’s cries follow me out of the apartment, downstairs, through every corner of the streets. It’s earsplitting, excruciating, like a millions bullets and stabs trying to bring me down. Deformed faces look at me in revulsion, I crash against imaginary walls, putrid shadows haunt my steps and I can never seem to reach the light. Morning without sun is the same as my days without Robin; wintery, colorless, clouded by terrors, smothered by fear, full of emptiness and ice. I find myself submerged in the woods, surrounded by trees and the sound of the leaves moving with the wind. I’m crying on my knees with a splinter of her ache crossing my stomach, digging into the layers of muscles to nest in the depths of my despair. I’m reduced to a frightened waste of human who can’t dream without nightmares, someone who isn’t anyone and has no control over his mind and body, a stranger who can’t give himself entirely to the blue-haired girl that lives next to him. And it’s right in that moment that I acknowledge how much time has passed since she smiled at me, since we shared ham and cheese sandwiches at the lobby of our building and I asked what her name was. Robin. _Like the bird_. I said. Robin.

I curled up on the floor, gathering my limbs to keep them together without her strength, all by myself in a world that doesn’t allow my survival. I cry until my eyes are ragged, my breathing is dry and my heart is swallowed by its beating. I think I’m still alive, but I couldn’t tell because the dark it’s driving me straight into hell. It’s over. The illusion of a life, the taste of peace and freedom we got. It starts to rain before the sky is coated by black, no stars, no moonlight, and the raindrops turn into time that I’m wasting trying to find a reason for goodbye without a kiss. The night knocks me out, my mind fantasizes about summer breeze, I see rainbows behind my eyelids, my dreams are images of purple nails marking my skin and faces burying into marshmallows while desiccated nostrils inhale apples. The only truth that matters is her in the far distance my fingers are unable to hold onto. No sun rises, thick, gray hazes of the day we met take away any trace of tinkerbell laughs and I’m sinking in memories of them all. I don’t feel my bones, they were pulverized by the loneliness, I can’t pick up my muscles and force my body to stand up. I’m tired. Tired and lost, that’s how I find the way back to that building I used to call home. What is it without her? Walls, stairs and more walls to lock into. _Go_. She begged. _Just go_. And I’m coming back where I don’t belong to anymore.

I’m saturated by rain when I reach the faded ninth floor. I take out my keys to walk inside and I hide under sheets, afraid to look through the window to find an ashen city. I push the door open. _A girl is standing outside the next door_. She’s wearing a pale yellow dress, bow-legged and soggy as hell. Why is she dripping with tears? Her blue hair sticks to her neck and collarbone, all creamy skin still damp. Her puffy slightly-open mouth has a letter drown on it. I look at her and just look, figuring out the shape of her face, unable to recognize the shade of blue I think I once knew, and I frown. _She’s trembling and her hands are shaking_. Ruined makeup, dead irises and fractured depth. _I know you_. I don’t. _You know me_. I wish I would. And right then and there, I know; I love her. Her heart-shaped lips and up-turned nose. _Robin_. Wild bird fluttering in her heart. _Robin_. Rainbow smile washed away by pain. _Robin_. Blue fire in her eyes. What happens next? That I don’t know, I only know we clash against each other like stardust and light, and that we’re kissing, like day and night.

Robin scratches the back of my neck, she doesn’t care if she’s hurting me, and I don’t give a damn about the sting. I run my hands up and down her sides, the frantic movements of my hands lead us inside, where we can hide together and be afraid to look through the window to a world that isn’t ours to live in. This is our world, open mouthed kisses and heavy breaths, our world, morning coffee and Friday night’s movies, our world, winter robins flying in the sky.

‘I love you’, for fuck’s sake, believe me when I say I do. _Please_. 'Come back’, renewed tears blend with the wetness of her tongue. ‘Come back to me’, please. Robin, _please_. I pull apart and drop my soul on her chest because my heart is shaking so much that my whole body is cracking in her arms.

‘I love you’, oh, God, be good and let me keep this, let me keep her with me. For now, for ever. 

She loves me too and it’s real. We’re real.

‘I love you’, I kiss her neck. ‘I love you’, I travel up her jaw. ‘I–’, she silences me, fucking finally, tugging at my hair to bring me down towards her, towards the sun. My tongue pushes its way inside her mouth and my teeth bite her bottom lip to reassure her that I belong to her, that she’s the only one I want, the one I miss and love. _I’m back, little bird, and I won’t go, I promise. I swear_. I cup the back of her head, tilting mine to deepen the kiss. 

There is heat and friction in the space between us. Tangled limbs, bright eyelashes, pouring love. I trace the contour of her ribs through the fabric of her dress, her hands cup my face and her thumbs soothe away my nightmares. 

‘Do you trust me?’, she says as her lips make her way up to my ear. The whisper leaves me deaf with ardor.

‘Yes’, I mumble, leaning to a random side to bare my neck to her. My throat is burning.

‘Close your eyes’, she demands. ‘Close your eyes for me’, anything, anything for you. I close my eyes and let her hands move over my body. I feel trembling fingers lift my damp shirt and take it off in a swift motion. _I trust you_. Then my pants slide down my legs, ever so slowly, her warm breath hits my thighs and I gasp. _I trust you_. I step out of the clothes, her touch evaporates for a second and I’m starting to miss its hesitance. I hear another piece of clothing hit the ground. ‘Bucky’, she begs. ‘Look at me’, everything, everything for you.

I open my eyes, the oxygen roaring inside my lungs at the sight of her half naked figure. There are curves inviting me to kiss, valleys to run over, corners crying to be claimed. The plainness of her chest is eternal, creamy and chilled, it rises and falls with every breath she takes and when she reaches behind to unclasp her bra to reveal what is forbidden, I can barely stand still. _I trust you_. The barrier fades away and I’m facing nothing but a piece of the heavens, and she’s beautiful like this. Shy, flushed cheeks and pinky nipples hardened by my cold panting. I caress the glorious roundness of her breasts with my eyes, down to her stomach, her lovely belly bottom, her hipbones and stop at the cotton panties that, along with the star-shaped snowflake necklace, are the only adornment left, and I love her like this too. Bare, nervous, mine. 

Suddenly, I’m self-conscious, scared of my own nudity, of how fast it would be, a slight faltering thought to fall into the touch, a single movement and we’d be gone. She takes my hand, cutting off the heat, and pushes me down the mattress. Her legs straddle my thighs and leans to kiss the scars of my left arm, where the metal joins flesh. I sigh at both the feeling of her mouth and our uncovered chests meeting in the middle of the friction, I close my eyes and embrace every sensation, aware of what is not going to happen, thankful of what it is. Robin rolls over, laying on the bed, and I immediately crawl over her to kiss her, my hands roaming over her figure and exploring the waves of creamy skin under my fingertips. We pull apart, breathless and dizzy, absorbed in each other’s entirety to mind the exposure, the combination of the icy sweat is enough to warm the nonexistent distance. I roll off her and she presses her back to me, curling against my chest as I pepper kisses on her shoulder. I see her hand prying under the pillow, taking out the music box I gave to her so many nightmares ago. I frown.

‘Haven’t figured it out yet?’, I ask, resting my chin on her upper arm and she shakes her head.

‘No’, her voice is hoarse. Something jolts far in the south. ‘Without the key, it won’t open’, she explains, quietly in the dark. She lifts the music box so I can look at it better and I study the opening where a key is supposed to get in. It’s not that small and it has pointy edges. Where on earth is a damn key with pointy ends? I purse my lips. ‘Maybe it just is what it is’, she shrugs, dropping the box, and turns to face me. She’s so close that I’m about to pass out for the lack of personal air. Not that I want any. It takes me an inhuman effort to keep my eyes fixed on hers, but a white spark steals my attention and I end up looking down, not exactly at those perfectly full breasts, but at the pointy structure of the necklace resting between them. Holy shit.

‘I think–’, I don’t give her the chance to ask further and I look for the discarded object behind her. ‘Let me–’, I align the necklace with the entrance of the music box and her face lights up, getting what I mean to tell. I slide the shiny piece of jewelry into the box’s aperture and I freeze. It fits. 

‘It’s a winding key!’, she exclaims in a happy, surprised tone. We smile in unison.

‘Your necklace is the key’, I laugh in disbelief. The old man said it belonged to the youngest daughter of the last Emperor of Russia. It was the most precious object she owned, and it came with a necklace, but both were lost, or so they thought. Or so they thought... 

What were the chances? I found the necklace at the lake, half buried in the snow, and I picked it up because I could only think of Robin just by looking at it. Was it even possible? The music box the old man gave me back in Kiev and Robin’s birthday gift were meant to reunite ins spite of the thousands of miles and ages apart. This should freak us out, this should be a lie, instead, it’s comforting, like we found something we thought was lost in a different lifetime.

‘How can this be?’, she inquires, not truly expecting an answer.

‘I don’t know’, I admit, examining the discovery. ‘Maybe it is just what it is’, I reprise her words and silence overtakes the astonishment. Then, I wind up the key a few times and the top opens, revealing a couple spinning around in the middle of a silver dance, there’s happiness sculpted on their platinum faces and grief in their imaginary steps.

I understand why it is meant for a unique person, why it is possible; a long time ago, someone must have loved, someone must have lost and this is what is left of that love. A sad melody playing the chords of memory, something that can’t be said, something that can’t be known. It owns an untold story, tragic, ever-lasting and forgotten. It’s a secret, like her. Tender waves of stolen peace melt the residues of the sky’s water, the mix of high-pitched sounds has her laughs and colors plastered all over the tempo, and I’m totally convinced that it had to be for her, from the moment the princess was torn apart from her most precious belonging, through longing and snow, it had to be for Robin. She snuggles against my side, leg across my stomach, metal hand caressing her thigh. I cover us with the blankets and we let the melody fill the room, lulling us to sleep. I’m fatigued, the fervor is gone and the warmth emanating from our bodies is nothing but calming.

‘You know we can’t leave it like that, don’t you?’, she utters, gently holding back my senses from the yearned for rest.

‘I know’, I kiss her forehead, breathing in the smell of rain. ‘Not tonight, please, just– let me keep you, here, with me’, I implore as my arms tighten around her. We shiver. ‘Can I keep you?’, say it. Just say it.

‘Yes’. She places a last, lazy kiss to my chin and I close my eyes, the music dying with an absentminded sigh.

After that night, I get to see the sunlight kiss her eyelids as we greet the bluest of skies that matches her hair in a sweet harmony that could only belong to her colors. We face each other in the middle of the mattress, pure love pooling between us. There are mornings that see our legs tangled between the sheets at dawn, the smell of her sleepy skin and the dried scent of her hair heavy in the air; she stays in bed a little longer, I hear her humming overlaid by streaming water and when she walks out of the bathroom, the steam follows her around and it’s terrifyingly familiar, like we’ve been doing this for years, for ages, for ever. We talked about what was happening to me, the nightmares about her, how I felt about them, and she assured me that I could tell her anything, that she wouldn’t judge me, and I make her promise me that she’d do the same with me. When I asked her why she was wearing her yellow dress and why was she that soggy, she said she couldn’t remember putting on the dress, only that she was looking for me. I kissed her to make her forget and reassure that I’m real and hers. I tell her everyday that I love her, when we wake up, when she’s making breakfast and when I kiss her goodbye. I tell her I love her when she comes back, countless more times while we’re having dinner or watching a movie. I tell her I love her to make up for every tear she shed, for every single moment she had doubts and thought she had lost me. It’s the least I can do. No. I can do more, be more for her because it has to be her who gets what I can offer. I must show her that I mean the words I speak. And that’s what I’m doing.

I’ve been planning something for Robin, not another date at the lake, but something that I hope she also enjoys. It’s been hard to make the arrangements without her noticing because, though she’s distracted as hell, it’s less likely that is passes unnoticed if we spend that amount of time together. While she’s out, I look for ideas on internet, watch music, dancing videos and read more elaborated recipes. I know she really doesn’t mind what we do, she’s humble and prefers the simplest of things, however, it would be nice to surprise her with a different activity. I still keep myself busy with my daily tasks, I’ve been working on the writing and she’s rigorous about it, practically sitting me down in front of the diary, which pages stay blank. It’s a pain in the ass, but I swear by her blue hair that I’m trying to improve. This is for me; she’s giving me that too. 

Today I finally manage to organize everything. Robin’s at the café and she’ll go to her cooking lessons after, that gives me enough time to prepare the meal, settle the things into place and look for the appropriate clothes for the occasion. We’ll be having pasta, an Italian salad and grape juice. The things she likes the most. I’m wandering through the streets at three o’clock, looking for a present for Robin, peeking into different stores, absurdly unsuccessful. I’m about to give up when I see it, a flower shop. That’s it, a bouquet of flowers for my little bird. I head towards the door and the bell rings to announce my arrival. A middle-aged man is standing behind the counter, the polite smile spreading on his face forms numerous wrinkles in the corner of his eyes.

‘ _Good evening_ ’, I greet, looking around the small local. I clear my throat and the man walks in my direction. ‘ _Do you have yellow roses?_ ’, I ask, overwhelmed by the collage of colors and aromas.

‘ _Yes, of course!_ ’, he says, gesturing me to follow him to a second door. I can’t believe my eyes as we enter a massive greenhouse crowded by all kinds of flowers perfectly adjusted in rows at each side of the passages. How did he put a freaking countryside in here? The man has my respect. ‘ _Are these fine, sir?_ ’, he’s standing in the mid section and signals the huge boxes in front of us that are filled with bright, yellow roses. I smile at myself and “She’s like a rainbow” starts to play inside my head. _Robin_. Only five pair of shoes. _Little robin_. Cold milk in the morning and hot showers at night. _Rainbow robin_. Purple, cats and yellow roses.

‘ _They’re alright_ ’, he nods and starts picking the less ripe ones so they can last longer, I assume. I look at the other huge box that has lilac flowers, they’re tinier and slenderer. ‘ _Can you make a bouquet with these?_ ’, he nods again, adding them to the growing bunch. ‘ _And these too?_ ’, I point at some kind of white wands that look pretty. The man works magic with my selection, forming a simple, yet nice bouquet that I really hope Robin approves.

‘ _Like this?_ ’, he lifts the master piece for both of us to admire. My smile widens and it’s the only approval he needs. We head back so I can pay for the flowers and the man gives me a knowing look before I thank him and leave to finish the preparations waiting for me at the building. Stupidly in love must be printed on my face. I walk out of the store totally contented with my purchase. 

It’s five o’clock when I arrive and Robin’s lessons must have ended. I have exactly half an hour to fix the final details. I hurry to prepare the meal, take a shower and when it seems I’m ready to jump into action, I realize my wardrobe is trash; jeans, shirts and jackets. I’m not counting the sport garments because there's no way in hell I’m having a romantic dinner with Robin dressed in sweatpants. She likes them, God knows I’ve caught her giving me second glances when I’m wearing those, but this is supposed to be a special night. She’ll wear a lovely dress, her muddy boots and her hair will be combed in waves of blue. And her imbecile of a boyfriend will be looking like a goddamned burglar. I actually consider the loin-cloth. I look down, frustrated and defeated, and I spot a black box; the Converse Robin gave me. An idea hits my dumb head. I take out the less wash-out dark jeans I have, a white shirt and that motorcycle jacket I found at a garage sale. I put on the outfit and soon I’m facing my reflection on the mirror of the bathroom, cursing myself for not shaving in a week. Then there’s my hair. Damn. Why is this so fucking complicated? It’s just a date, for Christ’s sake! A date with this girl who is the most wonderful being that ever walked on earth, this girl I’m head over heels for and keeps stealing bites of my heart with each glance of her big, brown eyes. I shave, looking somehow younger, definitely cleaner, and given that there’s no remedy to my hair, I pull it back and tie it in a lose bun. Robin showed me once how it looked on men, and maybe, _maybe_ , liked it. In all honesty, I’m in desperate need to look presentable for a date, I’m backed up.

I hear Robin’s steps on the stairs and I panic. I still have to get everything to the rooftop, the food bowls, cushions, the glasses and plates, the cutlery, the table cloth and the speakers. Jesus fucking Christ. I force my legs to move, my arms to gather the things and run towards the door; I stop cold on my tracks, processing what I’m doing. How am I planning on telling her without her noticing my clothes? How would I give her a hint? She’d know something’s up and the surprise would be ruined. Think, Barnes, think. I scan the table and the solution shows itself. I approach in long strides to the diary and the pen that were forgotten this evening, tearing a page off the notebook and writing down a short message:

“ _I’d love to see you on that little dress. Meet me at the rooftop in half an hour, please. Bucky._ ”

Sure, because she’s expecting someone else. I head out, ever so quietly, slide the piece of paper under her door and hurry the hell back inside my apartment. I make sure she doesn’t peep from hers, paying particular attention to every noise that comes from the other side of the wall, and when I’m sure I have clear coast, I run upstairs to set things up. I improvise a table for two with one of the wooden boxes there, covering it with the tablecloth, and put the cutlery and the cushions in apposite sides so we’re facing each other while we eat. In the second trip upstairs, I bring the juice bottle, some candles, the speakers and the bowls. Once everything’s in place, I go back to pick the flowers I bought for her, but my whole illusion is thrown out of the window when I realize they’re almost dead. Barnes, you useless, brainwashed moron, you forgot to put them on water. Even though they weren’t fully open, three hours under the intense light of kitchen lamp would roast them. A rush of anger at my own stupidity nearly kills off the enthusiasm, yet I know, I hope, I still can save the night. I pick them off the counter and dare to walk out towards her apartment, knocking at her door rather disappointed that the bouquet is looking miserable.

Robin comes out and her instant smile, her colors explode under the threshold. She’s wearing none of the dresses I’ve seen before, but one that questions her plausible existence. God, she’s beyond this world. The dress is elegant, the short sleeves brace her delicate shoulders like my lips few nights ago, the cut of the front exposes her collar-bone and a bit of her chest in a subtle way, the skirt reaches her knees and, as I thought, she’s not wearing high-heels, but a pair of black shoes. Robin’s blue hair frames her childish features, the makeup makes her eyes look deeper, bigger if that’s possible, and somehow, she remains natural. Wild and pure. Her dress is red, a color that ignites the very fire of my loins. The sight of her, dolled up and adorable as hell, leaves me breathless, dumfounded, and I have to fight back the urge to drop to my knees in awe.

‘You’re so beautiful, little bird’, I find myself whispering. I almost lose it when the skin of her cheeks turns rosy because it reminds me of a similar shade of pink that is now hidden behind the fabric. Damn. I start to panic again, knocked out by that last though, and I acknowledge the bouquet my left hand is holding. ‘I– these are for you’, to say that I shove the flowers at her face would be an exaggeration, yet my movements are too quick for her and she has to blink in order to follow what I’m doing. She takes the bouquet and looks at them, her taken-aback expression softening immediately. ‘Do– do you like them?’, my question is dripping with insecurity.

‘Yes’, her voice is strangled by a whimper. Jesus, tell me this is not the first time someone gives her flowers. Who wouldn’t? Goddamn world, you don’t deserve her. I swear to myself to bring her flowers and coffee every morning for the rest of her life, not just because she’s mine to take care of and love, because the crystalized gratitude of her irises is priceless. ‘I like them very much’, she says and I feel like I can finally breathe. ‘Thank you’, she stands on her toes to press a soft kiss to my lips. I tremble at the fluttery touch. She looks down and I hear her breath hitches on her throat. ‘What are you wearing?’, such a quivering voice. I look okay, don’t I? 

‘I– I thought this– I couldn’t find–’, I stutter, unable to formulate a complete answer.

‘You look... great’, she praises, and her blown pupils tell me that’s not what she meant. She’s ogling me. Robin, adorable bundle of joy is ogling me. I quirk an eyebrow, amused and satisfied, she gulps and she asks me to wait a moment. I nod and walk towards her table where there’s a glass pan covered with aluminum foil. She puts the flowers on a vase with water before turnings back to me again and hands me the rectangular object, closing the door being her. 

‘What’s this?’, I gesture her to follow me.

‘Since you’ve been a victim of my terrible baking skills, I decided to practice on Liana until I got this right’, she says as we make our way upstairs. I’m waiting for her to comment further and she chooses to answer until we’re standing centimeters away from the door that leads out of the building. Right, she has troubles talking and climbing stairs at the same time, she could have an asthma attack. ‘It’s a peach-and-plum pie’, I only catch “plums”. She smiles proudly and I grin opening the door. 

If she was going to add something else, she’s left speechless by the little table-for-two recreation I made. I’m blessed for having first row seats and admire her expression shifts from shocked to happy, back-and-forth in a funny vacillation. She looks to me in utter incredulity.

‘Bucky…’, I shush her before she finishes whatever she was going to say, taking her hand and walking towards our special night.

‘Come on, food’s getting cold’, I encourage, lighting up the candles as we sit down on the cushions. I’m nervous, at the verge of freaking out, and Robin’s calm glow is right there to work on my anxiety, soothing the tension of my muscles. She doesn’t waste time and sinks her fork into the pasta, humming in approval. 

‘This is delicious!’, she exclaims. ‘You’re the chef out of our relationship, that’s for sure’, her admission makes me chuckle. We chat and eat like we always do, enjoying the warm breeze of summer, the dim light and the shelter of the stars. I bet she’s never looked this whole, and to merely consider that she’s happy because of me, for us, for what we have here and now, is by far the most wonderful feeling in the universe. She laughs her tinkerbell laugh, I drown in the twinkles of her smile, let her blue fire paint my skin and I fall in love with her more with every ticking second. God, I’m in love, stupidly so, and she’s in love with me, ridiculously so. She praises the food one more time before tapping her stomach. 

‘Glad you like it’, I thank her with a kiss to her knuckles that ended up in my hand. ‘Now bring up that pie’, she chuckles and slides a generous piece for me and a smaller one for her. I’m eager and I have no shame to show it. The moment my tongue comes in contact with the soft texture of the pie, I hum in pleasure. She nailed it. ‘Oh, sweet fuck’.

‘Bucky!’, she scolds, a trace of amusement in her tone. I don’t blame her, I’m talking with my mouth full, and cursing. Ever the gentleman.

‘Sorry, but this is incredible’, she shakes her head in fond exasperation. ‘Told you you’d improve’, I point out and she nods in agreement. I devour four more slides of the pie and Robin saves the leftovers for me to eat later, of course. A peaceful silence fills the intimate bubble surrounding us, we’re looking at the city from the ledge of the building and my little bird is nested between my legs, the folds of her dress spread over them. My arms are wrapped around her waist, her fingers are drawing shapeless patterns on my metal forearm and my cheek is resting on the top of her head. I could die right now, right here, and I’d still be the happiest man of all. And for a moment, I forget that she’s not mine, not entirely, not forever, that I shouldn’t be sleeping in her bed and living in her world this way. Perhaps, I know I will never be what she deserves. Robin senses my agitation and out of nowhere, out of herself, she turns around and kisses me tenderly. 

I can’t get enough of it, the mild pace of her tongue, the pressure of her lips. And her taste, Jesus, her taste. It’s too sweet, perfectly balanced with the salt of her saliva, it’s too much of the peaches and plums, too fresh and wet. Too mine. I lightly fist the hair on the back of her head and she sits up to straddle me, like she always does, her palms roam over the expanse of my shoulders and back, traveling to the collar of my jacket and fisting it with the same frantic strength as mine. Our noses brush as our mouths collide, and when my hands run down her sides, then to her torso and cup her breasts through the satin fabric, she moans. I’m screwed up. The filthy sound triggers an unexpected reaction from me and in the briefest of flashes, I’m pinning her against the surface of the ledge. In one swift motion, her legs enclose my waist, pulling me even closer to her body, the heat, the urgency, and I struggle to keep up with her thirst. I trail her neck and throat with open-mouthed kisses, nipping at the velvety flesh, bold enough to tease the edges of the cleavage. I earn moans, needy whimpers, and I want to make her louder. I want _her_. My hands lift her skirt and I dig my nails into the firm muscles of her thighs while my teeth sink into her bottom lip. Passion. Desire. Love. I’m blinded by them all. But when I feel her rub the front of my jeans, I pull apart violently. 

I didn’t realize I closed my eyes, so to see the lust-blown pupils as she opens hers, I’m aware of what we almost did, what I wanted to do to her and still yearn for. I shake my head, hoping she understands that I’m unable to go further; Robin nods. We wait until our breathing stabilizes, I rest my head on her chest, letting her cradle me and placate the demons that possessed me. Silence is what we hear for a while, peace between us, love thudding in our ears. We stay there, inert, and is Robin who breaks the quiet promise that sealed our mouths.

‘Thanks for all of this’, she whispers. I straighten up, forcing her to do the same and we both look down, suddenly uneasy.

‘Robin, I’m– I’m sorry’, I begin, ‘I’m sorry for hurting you, for leaving you’, I see her flinch from my peripheral vision. ‘I’ve said it so many times that I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t believe me anymore’, I don’t wish for it. I wish we haven’t bumped into each other that rainy day of fall, that she, maybe, would have found freedom and happiness away from me, and most of all, I wish I could have disappeared the precise minute her colors touched my soul. I wish she had the chance to live a life without me, be strangers, be nothing. And now, she’s here, so aloof, so simultaneously near that sometimes I look at her and I still can’t believe she’s real. A heavy sigh escapes my mouth. ‘I’m far from being the man you deserve. You, the one person who deserves everything good in this world’, there’s a knot of cries stuck in my throat, I’m fighting back the screams and the pleas. Robin’s fingers find their way to my knee and I reach for the second page I tore off the notebook early this morning, hidden in the back pocket of my jeans. The piece of paper shakes in my right hand. ‘I tried to write something for you, but it seems I couldn’t even do that’, my chuckle is dry, bitter as my words. ‘I found this on internet, it’s a letter from– from…’, from this woman who was an amazing painter. Stupid, useless brain. It can’t remember a single name. I let out another sigh, upset. I look at Robin and she’s shining with starlight and moon dust, the city in the background vanishes with the wind and it hurts the idea to belong there without her. My gaze moves to the paper and I open my mouth one, two, three times; nothing comes out. 

‘You don’t have–’.

‘Yes, I do’, my tone is stern, but it doesn’t scare her. She knows that I have to do this, not just for her, but for me. It’s getting it out of my system. ‘If I read it out loud, maybe– maybe you’ll know–’.

I open the page.

“ _Truth is, so great, that I wouldn’t like to speak, or sleep, or listen, or love. To feel myself trapped, with no fear of blood, outside time and magic, within your own fear, and your great anguish, and within the very beating of your heart. All this madness, if I asked it of you, I know, in your silence, there would be only confusion. I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you, you give me grace, your light and your warmth. I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors, because there are so many, in my confusion, the tangible form of my great love._ ”

The page falls from when my grip loosens, Robin’s breathing is shaky and I regret reading the letter. I should have waited until we were inside, or maybe giving it to her before going to bed so we could sleep on it. I want to look to her and see for myself what is she thinking, unravel her thoughts and feelings, but I’m a coward. I can’t bring myself to man up and ask her what she has to say about the matter. She loves me, I know, I’ve felt it, heard it, and I love her maybe just as much. Then why did I looked for someone else’s words to express what I still don’t understand? I wanted her to be sure about my feelings, in spite of the nightmares, the demons and the ghosts. Was it really that helpful or did it leave us deeper in the dark? 

Fuck it.

This is supposed to be a date, we should be laughing and having fun. That is what matters, what it’s true; us, here in Bucharest, now at a random hour of the night. That’s what she’s expecting, the man I can be for her is precisely the one I already am, just Bucky with just Robin, rotten to the marrow, broken as a human. I stand up abruptly, making her jump next to me, and I start looking for the speakers and take my iPod out of my jacket, chuckling at Robin’s bewildered expression.

‘I want to try one more thing’, I explain, scrolling on the screen with my thumb until I find that song I’ve been reserving especially for today, then I synchronize both devices and when I look down at Robin, her big, brown ayes are expectant. She’s breathtaking. I tap at the _play_ icon of the iPod and the atmosphere turns gold and green at the rhythm of the music. Louis Armstrong’s “La Vie En Rose”, of course. In the best attempt to move with grace and security, I bow in front of her and outstretch my hand. ‘May I have this dance, ma’am?’, I ask, voice full of charm. Where the hell did that come from? She laughs, tinkerbell mixed with summer breeze and stands up to join me in the middle of the rooftop. Robin’s hands rest on my shoulders and my arms keep her close to me in a weak hold. ‘I’ve– I’ve been practicing’, I affirm. I don’t know what instrument is playing, but it makes Robin close her eyes and press her forehead against my chin. We find our own harmony. _Hold me close and hold me fast_. Slow sways of our feet. _The magic spell you cast_. The balance of our bodies. _This is la vie en rose_. And the pace of our pulsations. _When you kiss me, heaven sighs_. I don’t think anymore, I’m reduced to nerves exposed on the skin. _And though I close my eyes, I see la vie en rose_. Robin sighs and her warm breath fans over Adam’s Apple as she pulls apart. _When you press me to your heart, I'm in a world apart_. Her eyes are sparkling diamonds in the night. _A world where roses bloom_. She’s beautiful, in every sense of the word, whatever that means, and I cup her jaw with my metal hand. _And when you speak, angels sing from above_. ‘Thank you for forgiving me, for never letting go of me’. _Everyday words seem to turn into love song_. ‘Thank you for being who you are’. _Give your heart and soul to me_. ‘Thank you for giving me peace in a world where I only knew war’. _And life will always be la vie en rose_.

We stop the gentle swinging and I lean down to kiss her, unhurried and hard.

‘I love you, Robin Dawson’, I hear myself saying inside the hot wetness of her mouth. ‘I love you’, I repeat over and over until they are carved in our memory. 

‘I love you, Bucky Barnes’, those words in her tongue could tear the world in half. She’s flustered and vibrant, a dazed-off smile playing on her face. Her eyes harden a bit when she speaks again. ‘And if nothing else feels real anymore, if you don’t trust anything else, trust this’, she guides my hand to cover the star-shaped snowflake necklace. The secret. ‘Trust us’. The promise.

 _Trust this_. The coldness of my chest and the colors of her heart. _Trust us_. Her heart and our love, always and forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really mad. I'm so angry at myself and I've been suffering so much with writing that at some point, I thought I was going to announce a hiatus. I was feeling so, so bad because only THIS week I got to sit down and write. Ended up writing till four in the morning, during the day and today I just couldn't stand it anymore. 
> 
> This is my last semester of college and I don't know why I thought it'd be lighter. I have less classes, less to read and, truth to be told, I have more free time. The thing is that I actually don't. I have two big projects coming out in the same month, I'm (supposed to be) working on my thesis, I'm trying to be healthy and I go for a morning run three times a week, actually sleep more than six hours a day and for some reason, I'm tired and busy all the time. God, I love school but I hated it this last month...
> 
> Anyways, here it is chapter 20! *cries* I, well, yeah, it was frustrating for all the things I said before, but I really like this chapter. Specifically, when Bucky and Robin fight. I don't know, the things she says to him are like really strong and yeah, I mean, it kind of kicks some sense into him. Next chapters are gonna be a little rough, lots of tears and violence, from the most unexpected someone, with tons of fluff and some more sexy times. I'm not going to tell you when (if?) there'll be smut, so pay attention to the tags and the rating. I'll change it when I see it fit :D
> 
> Please, I beg you, leave comments! I really need some love from you, wonderful readers. I know I'm asking too much after making you wait this long, but please, have mercy of this senior whose life is about to be trash. PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS KUDOS OR ANYTHING! I LOVE YOU! I'M SORRY! OKAYBYE! T____T
> 
> PS: [Here is](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com/post/158013808862/winter-robin-series) an update of Robin's music box and necklace, in case you were wondering. Oh, and the letter is from Frida Kahlo to Diego Rivera ;)


	21. The Only One

06:30 a.m. The alarm rings at that ungodly hour to indicate that I have to get up and ready for work. I blink a few times until my vision adjusts to the morning light peeking from behind the curtains. The spot next to me is empty, slightly warm, slightly his, and the sound of running water in the bathroom fills my ears. I yawn, covering my eyes with my arms, reluctant to get out of bed, and I synchronize the ticking of the clock with my heartbeat. I don’t know for how long I stay there, I’m not really thinking about something in particular, bits of yesterday, a collage of tomorrow. I’m barely awake, but when I hear the bathroom door open, I feel a wave of electricity run up my spine, making me look at the figure of the man I love lighting up the room. His torso is exposed, few water drops falling down his broad chest, the lower half of his body is covered _just_ with his tight boxers and I see every flexion of his powerful muscles as he shifts to dry his hair with a small towel. His biceps are huge, the size of my head, I bet, his legs are long, intimidatingly thick, and the prominent veins of his forearms steal a strangled yelp from my throat. He turns to me and blushes intensely, putting on a shirt I didn’t noticed was on his hands, and then he smiles at me with tenderness, brighter than the very sun waiting for us outside.

‘Morning’, he says, his voice a little cautious. It’s kind of funny that he feels insecure about his body, a marble-sculptured piece of art, but also kind of sad because the reason he does is as dark as unspeakable. He’s hesitant about exposing much of his skin and he’s still working on feeling comfortable around me with his arms or torso uncovered, even inside the apartment. I clear my throat.

‘Hey’, my greeting gives away how much I’m struggling to focus. Jesus, why am I being so hormonal? This is just Bucky. Well, precisely. It’s Bucky, my ninety-something boyfriend that looks like a model from a sport clothes brand and makes me flustered at 06:45 a.m. He finishes drying, putting on his sweatpants too and laying next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist and hiding his face in my tousled hair; he smells like cleanness and light, he feels like peace and morning breeze. I rest the side of my head on his shoulder, nuzzling his soft skin and kissing his collar-bone.

‘Why are you so cold?’, I ask and frown, because he should be warm from the shower. ‘There wasn’t hot water?’. 

‘I wanted you to shower here’, he confesses, drawing circles on my back under my shirt.

‘Oh’, I simply say. He showered with cold water so I could have enough hot water for later. Is this man really that perfect? Zeus, help me. ‘My clothes are in my apartment, anyways’, that’s how my brain decides to answer to his kindness, but when I’m about to apologize, he crawls on top of me and starts kissing me with such hunger and mildness that I’m grateful we’re not standing on solid ground, otherwise I would have fainted or something.

Bucky has learned how to move his lips and twist his tongue in a way that every nerve of my body blossoms out, making me hypersensitive to his touch. He’s nested between my legs, running his hands up and down my sides, my thighs are bracketing his hips and my toes press him closer to me. His breathing is quick, the beating of his heart is about to explode inside his ribcage, and I’m sure he feels my body melting under his. The heat, the friction can be heard in the room and muffled moans leave us deaf and dizzy. I don’t want it to stop. 06:55 a.m. Never. 07:00 a.m. I’m going to be late.

‘Bucky’, I whisper and squirm underneath him; he ignores me. ‘Bucky’, his mouth is fierce and deep, giving me no chance to clear my mind enough and formulate a complete sentence. ‘Bucky’, he’s reducing me to say his and only his name.

‘Don’t go to work’, he mumbles and I shiver. ‘Don’t go to your lessons’, he bites my bottom lip and I whimper. ‘Stay’, his voice is persuasive, the perfect amount of gruff and velvet. ‘Stay with me’, he kisses that sensible spot behind my ear. ‘Please’, I’m fighting back the need to respond to his touch the way my instincts yearn for. ‘ _Malen'kaya ptitsa_ ’, okay, now he’s playing dirty. ‘ _Ostavat'sya_ ’, he repeats in a lower tone. That’s it. I pull back, looking right into his eyes, but the lust-blown pupils that eclipse over the blue of his irises take me aback. Our chests collide with each other’s, we’re wild gazes, flashing souls drowning inside the depths of our desire. We’re ours, right here, right now, and I’m unable to absorb all the fervor pouring from his heart. It’s overwhelming.

‘I’m gonna be late’, I manage to pant and I try to sit straight, but he snakes his arms back around my waist and pulls me back to the bed. ‘Bucky!’, I scold him, half serious, half amused by his childish behavior. ‘I’m gonna be late’, I repeat, my tone sterner this time.

‘Alright, alright’, Bucky sets me free from his hold and rolls over to let me straighten up. ‘Go on, then’. 

‘Thank you’, I jump out of bed and the day begins. 

I head out towards my apartment and it’s not until I’m under the stream of water that I fully wake up. This week has been a rough one since Liana hasn’t been able to come everyday and I have to stay a double shift to cover for her. That and my cooking lessons are getting on my nerves because we’re learning French confectionery and I simply can’t keep up with it, so Bucky’s offer was hard to decline. Besides, him kissing me senseless doesn’t help to clear one’s thoughts and be a responsible adult. When I come out of the shower, I smell scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee and there’s something sweet too, maybe Bucky warmed up the muffins I brought yesterday. With a smile playing on my features, I dress up hurriedly and walk out of the bathroom to find this beautiful man standing in front of my stove, humming some random melody while serving the food on the plates. His now dried hair is pulled back, fastened into a man’s bun (oh, boy), and his sweatpants are hanging dangerously low from his hips. Bucky turns around and catches me ogling him from the door, then chuckles and I look down, embarrassed at my obviousness. I’m honestly surprised that I haven’t had an asthma attack just by the sight of him.

‘Come on, it’s getting cold’, he gives me a shy smile and I clear my throat, feeling the blush of my cheeks intensify under his knowing look.

It’s been happening more often these days. There’s a strong energy pulling me closer to him, a primal attraction and need of his touch that takes me off guard. I don’t understand it, not the entirety of it, and although it’s not frustrating, it’s rather confusing. I want to make him thrive, to map his body with my fingertips and lips, I want to make love to this man that is the strongest, yet the frailest of all beings. I never wanted this with someone, never wanted to make him feel everything the way I do, to open that door for him. And the idea terrifies me, not because I’m afraid he rejects me, but because I’m afraid I’d hurt him. I’ve been intimate before, I’ve shared a bed with someone, I know how to give and demand pleasure, but what would it be like for Bucky? What if it’s too soon, too fast, and I scare him? Bucky deserves to see his own life in slow-motion, to acknowledge every feeling, every experience, and become familiar with each one of them. To own his life and everything on it, then, perhaps, share a small part of it with me. I shake my head and go back to eat my food because it’s getting later.

‘Robin, are you okay?’, what?

‘What? Yeah, I’m fine’, my automatic and abrupt answer makes him frown. We keep eating and he swallows the lie. Suddenly, I become aware of what we’re listening: Queen’s greatest hits. Again. It’s amazing that he liked them a lot because I like them just as much, however, he doesn’t have anything else to listen to, and that has to change. ‘May I?’, I gesture the iPod and he nods. 

I scroll down the playlist, pursing my lips when none of the options seem good, then I spot that one song that used to play several times during a summer in Naples. I smile, tapping at the screen and listening to the intro of “Come as you are” while Bucky puts his dirty dishes on the sink. I hum and finish my breakfast without hurry, accepting the fact that I’m going to be late and Costin will have a mini heart attack. 

‘Who’s that?’, he turns around and there is excitement written on his face. I love that shining on his eyes every time I show him something new and he likes it, like I can make him happy with the simplest of things.

‘Nirvana’, I say and stand up to walk towards him. ‘You like’em?’.

‘Yeah’, he takes the dirty dishes from my hands kisses my nose, making me chuckle. I run to the bathroom to comb my hair and put on some makeup, not wanting to make Costin wait even more. Bucky’s gaze is glued down on the iPod, his foot tapping on the floor at the rhythm of “Lithium” and he looks so relaxed, so into the picture that my chest drips with love. ‘What do you want for dinner today?’, he asks as I take my purse and helmet from his new night-stand. We were talking a walk last week when he saw one on a poster from a furniture store, so he said he was going to make his own and five days later, here it is. I must admit that it’s quite impressive his determination to make things himself instead of buying them. I put on the helmet and look at him.

‘I’m feeling like having…’, I frown, pondering on my decision. Our diet is basically chicken, pasta, “vegetables” and ice-cream. I struggle to make Bucky to eat more than mushrooms and spinach, so I have to think through the alternatives that could be subtle at introducing him to a variety of green, healthy stuff. ‘Quinoa’, I blurt out. ‘I’d love quinoa with cauliflower’, and Bucky’s face contorts in shameless disgust, making me laugh. ‘You should see your face right now’, I say, my shoulders shaking, struggling to contain more laughter. Bucky opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off before he gets the chance to say a single word. ‘I’m not changing my mind. I’m about to become vegetarian if that means you’ll eat more vegetables’.

‘But you love shwarma, and ham, and bacon! You can’t take those out of your diet’, he exclaims, honestly worried that I’m being serious. The vegetables issue is quite terrifying for him, I can tell, yet I’m too much of a sucker for any kind of anguish he shows. Fine, I’ll be merciful.

‘You’re right, I guess’, I shrug and he actually lets out a relieved sigh. Who would have thought a super-soldier was such drama queen? The Lord works in mysterious ways. ‘I mean it, though, you must eat more vegetables, and fruit’, I assert and his expression turns amused.

‘Yes, ma’am’, I scoff.

‘Don’t you just “ma’am” me, and don’t give me that look’, I warn, lifting my index finger to point out that lopsided smile Bucky-the-charmer-Barnes uses when he wants to soften the heart of this 5’4-blue-handle of trouble. He chuckles, approaching to me, his large frame forming a cocoon around my body as he pulls me into his embrace. ‘We’re having a vegetarian meal tonight’, I mutter, snuggling into his chest. All he has to do is being a giant teddy-master-assassin-bear and I’m done for. Jesus.

‘But I need protein, and you said I have to eat healthy’, he won’t let go, will he?

‘Quinoa has a high protein content, Bucky, you’re not getting away with it’, I smack his shoulder and take a step back to head towards the door. I don’t notice him following me, so when he places a loud kiss to my cheek, I let out a squeal. 

‘It was worth trying’, we both laugh and I turn to look at him. 

‘I’ll see you later’, he nods and I stand on my toes to kiss those lips that turn me into a hormonal teen that can’t take her eyes and hands off her boyfriend. He hums and leans down, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. The alarm of my phone indicates that it’s already 08:15 and sure now Costin will lose his mind. We pull apart reluctantly. ‘I promise I’ll bring a nice dessert, if that makes you feel better’. 

‘Lot better’, he pecks my nose and, as always, I chuckle. I think my nose is a tickling spot, but he doesn’t realize, well, I hope he hasn’t already for he’ll be teasing me none-stop. ‘Have a good day’, his wishes are rewarded by a final (I promise) chaste kiss to his lips. ‘I love you’, oh, those words. Those words spoken with his gentle tone that expresses everything he doesn’t. Longing, need, begging, caring. It’s magic on his mouth. 

‘I love you’, I walk backwards towards the exit, tripping, of course, on a box. Bucky’s eyes follow the slightest move, his hand lingers on the air when I let go and his smile is the last thing I see before opening the door to face the time that will go by without him.

Bucharest is one of the most wonderful places during spring. It’s a multicolor canvas where I find my way into every shade of blue and green, and the smell of flowers and fresh water fills my lungs. The city is alive, I am alive. It takes me fifteen minutes to dive into the scenes of Bucky and Robin’s life movie: both of our attempts to know each other more, the constant effort to unravel the secrets of our past, his despair at his misplacement, the anger towards those who destroyed the human he once was, my fear of the ever-present possibility that he leaves and, above all, the terror that he never comes back. I’m not talking about physically leaving, he’s done that and my world kept spinning, I’m talking about losing him, about him going down a path where I can’t follow. There’s the chance he forgets who am I, who we are and what we have, he can wake up one day and kill me because he doesn’t know where and who he is, and the mere thought is spine-chilling. 

After he told me about his nightmares, I thought through it and came up with a solution that wasn’t really good, in fact, it made me feel stupid for even have thought about it. Liana recommended me some sleeping pills that her parents sell at the pharmacy, and I arrived home hopeful that it could help Bucky, yet, when I mentioned it to him, his reaction startled me: he stood up abruptly, putting as much distance as possible between him and the small bottle of pills, his breath quickened and his voice faltered.

_‘Please, don’t make me take them’, he begs. I keep dead quiet for a while, the sound of his heavy breathing drills my ears and I’m trying to figure out what to say next, an apology or a question, both maybe. He seems to hear my inner debate and speaks before I do: ‘After I escaped from Hydra, it was hard to get rid of all the chems they used to put in me’, he explains and looks down, fidgeting. ‘I had my own cocktail’, he lets out a dry chuckle. ‘Antidepressants, all kinds of sedatives and serums, things to make me capable of anything, but also things to tame me, to gain some of the control they knew they didn’t have’, there’s poison staining those words. How could I be so blind? Of course medicine wasn’t the right answer to his nightmares; more chemicals, less control. ‘When I was “clean”, I started to have nightmares, I felt down and anxious all the time, didn’t even tolerate going out because everything was so threatening and bright’, I close my eyes and curse myself. ‘I’m afraid those affect me in a heightened way’. Oh, Bucky. ‘I know you mean well, but–’, I shake my head._

_‘No, I am sorry’, I look at him, his afflicted expression twisting a knife into my chest. Stupid. ‘I didn’t know’. Stupid. ‘I didn’t think’. Stupid._

_‘You didn’t have to’, Bucky rushes towards me and he’s the one consoling me now, rubbing my back and kissing the side of my head. ‘It shouldn’t be that complicated… for anybody’, he gives me a reassuring smile and I nod. We kiss away the bitter the taste on our tongues_.

I stayed mad at myself for a while. When we started to talk and he stopped being my nameless neighbor, when I was Robin-like-the-bird and we trying to fit into the right places of the world’s flaws, I was beyond careful. I remember, back then, I wouldn’t even ask what I thought would upset him. Subjects, movements, words, they were all dangerous until proven otherwise. And now that we’re something else, now that he’s become the brightest star of all and he calls me the summer breeze and rainbow of his life, I don’t understand why I seem to keep forgetting about how sensible he truly is. I know him, the best and the worst part of him, I know that Bucky likes sweets, sweet things in general, his favorite band is The Rolling Stones, his favorite song is “She’s like a rainbow”, I know he hates vegetables (that’s pretty much clear), and there’s no way I’m making him watch a Disney movie ever again, he made me swear on ice-cream. I know he likes to play with my hair and kiss me when I less expect it. I know Bucky is the most caring, thoughtful, careful human in the world, he’s gentle and shy, chatty indoors, insecure and nervous outdoors. But I also know that he wakes up in the middle of the night calling for Steve, begging him to stop hurting him, begging them to let him go. He has sleepless nights and quiet days. He makes it clear when he needs space and time by himself. He might not be alone anymore, but he still wants to be left alone.

We’re adapting to each other and our routines: he’s very organized and clean, I’m not, so he’s showing me the ways of The Discipline while I try to make the sheets of my bed look more days without wrinkles. We agreed to keep separate apartments with half our stuff in each one, he has clothes in my closet, I have mine in his and we have breakfast at his apartment and some other times at mine. It’s about living together and keep our individuality, giving us a chance to step back if we need to, and what’s best is that it feels natural. I find myself smiling, pedaling slowly through the streets, and by the time I arrive to the café, Costin has already turned around the “open” sign.

Costumers arrive in a huge wave and orders hit me like a truck. I’m used to handle a lot of people at once, today however, for unknown reasons, they wouldn’t even let me breathe. “ _Miss, could you bring us two frappes, three cappuccinos and five slides of cheesecake?_ ”, “ _Miss, would you bring us more coffee?_ ”, “ _Miss, the count, please_ ”, “ _Miss, I’d like more sugar_ ”, “ _Miss, why is your hair blue?_ ”. Jesus. Costin has to help me prepare the orders, bring them to the tables and do the counts. More costumers arrive by evening, Liana is nowhere to be seen, it’s four o’clock and her classes finished two hours ago. The first time it happened, I meant to ask Andrei about her, but he wasn’t at the café either. It’s weird because he’s usually here when she arrives and they leave together. He hasn’t stopped by in a while, now that I think of it, and Liana doesn’t mention him a lot. It’s confusing, and this is not the time to ponder on it. I’m losing my mind, I skipped my cooking lessons, again, because I don’t dare to leave Costin alone. I’m starting to worry about her, she’s been doing this for the last couple of weeks and there’s always a lame excuse, things like “my mom wanted me to help at the pharmacy”, although I know her mom’s usually at the hospital around that hour, or “my chemistry teacher assigned me a new project for extra-credits”. She doesn’t need extra-credits, she’s at the top of the class and is about to graduate with honors. She’s lying, and I can’t understand what could be so terrible that she’s unable to tell me. I just hope Costin doesn’t get tired of it and fire her. 

Liana walks through the door of the café at five o’clock and I actually feel a height being taken off my shoulders. 

‘ _Thanks God you’re here_ ’, I let out a sigh. She doesn’t say anything back and keeps putting on her uniform. When she pulls her hair into a ponytail, I see the big bruise on the side of her head. What on earth…? I step closer and lift my hand to trace the bruise, which reaches down to her neck. She grimaces.

‘ _It’s nothing_ ’, she says. Yeah, that looks like nothing. ‘ _I– I trapped and I fell off the stairs of my house_ ’, this can’t be an accident, yet Liana senses my need to argue and urges to assure. ‘ _It’s nothing, really_ '. Why is she lying about this too? My mother-hen instinct tells me to turn her down and demand an explanation, but she looks exhausted, drained, and I don’t have the heart to press further on the matter.

‘ _Are you feeling alright?_ ’, I ask instead.

‘ _Yes, of course_ ’, she gives me a weak smile. ‘ _Come on, let’s get to work_ ’, I nod and we walk out to face the crowded café, like Batman and Robin, almost literally.

She synchs with me in a set of movements that allows us to reach every corner. She takes the orders, I bring them; she brings the orders, I take them. Costin collects the money. The Three Coffeeteers are back. I don’t miss the sadness and fatigue behind Liana’s smile. I’ve known her long enough to identify those subtle signals that something’s up, and I wish I had the courage to ask her straight away what’s happening. There are times when I question my own capability to treat people, to approach and show concern, it’s difficult, yet fair to admit that I’m probably not the one who has to. But I’m wrong. Liana is my friend, the only friend I have, and I’m letting her push me away when, maybe, she needs me closer. I’m supposed to support my best friend, to be sympathetic and demonstrate that she can trust me. She doesn’t hesitate to ask me how I feel or think, so why do I? The question is another excuse to avoid talking to her. At eight o’clock, Costin thanks us and we part ways with a quick hug.

There’s no point in continuing with my cooking lessons. I’ve skipped them for the last couple of weeks and my teacher would probably ask me who am I if I show up at the next lesson. The decision is simple: no more cooking. It’s sad, yet necessary. I let out a defeated, exhausted sigh and head towards my building to finally jump into those strong arms and let them keep me where I belong. Sunlight and Milky Way. Bucky is reading as I open the door of his apartment. He’s sitting on his couch with the laptop resting on his stomach, his second notebook all but forgotten on the floor. I smile at this. He’s been writing every day since we talked about his nightmares. I don’t know what secrets are printed with fearful handwriting in there, he doesn’t tell me and I don’t want him to. This is his, a small piece of solitude, a place where he can hide the greatest terrors those steel-blue eyes have seen. He finished the first notebook a few nights ago, and now that he seems motivated by the activity, the advances on the second one flow with ease.

He looks up, closing and placing the laptop on the floor. He smiles at me and I swear his love electrifies my body.

‘I thought you’d arrive earlier’, he says and I run in his direction, throwing myself at his already open arms. _Home_. He doesn’t seem affected by my sudden outburst of energy, not even when I land on top of him less than gracefully, his taut body serving as the perfect pillow. Paradoxically so. I don’t answer to his comment, I’m a clingy dwarf who needs to cuddle with this adorable meatball and forget about the ache that a busy day at work leaves on one’s muscles. I’m not lying here, I hardly feel my legs and Bucky’s warmth turned out to be a perfect painkiller as well. What a coincidence, right? I notice there’s music playing from the speakers, despite the low volume, I can recognize the song: “Polly”. 

‘I missed you’, I whisper, closing my eyes, and he buries his nose in my hair. _Polly wants a cracker_. He rests one of his arms on my back and rubs circles between my shoulder-blades. _I think I should get off her first_. I hum in approval and he runs his fingers down, settling just right above my backside, pressing on the knots that formed there. _I think she wants some water_. I move my face up to brush my lips over his neck and kiss his stubbled jaw, thanking him. _To put out the blow torch_. Bucky wraps both of his arms around me, flesh and metal, hot and cold. My Bucky. The slow and quiet pace of his breathing is soothing, his fingertips ignite sparks on my spine and wake up my senses. Magnetic desire, vibrant hunger, primal love. I’m drowning on them all. 

I sit up abruptly, pulling him off he couch along with me. I kiss him hard, carding my fingers into the strands of his hair, tugging his head back to deepen the kiss. The control, the urgency, the need. Bucky bites my bottom lip and I hear a click inside my skull. I stand up without breaking the kiss, Bucky’s hands roaming over my back, my ribs, and I lead us towards the mattress. In a non-thinking, rushed motion, I take off that navy-blue shirt that makes him look broader, stronger, thicker, and Bucky gasps when I run my nails up and down his bare torso. I love his skin, its smoothness, its roughness at the joint of his shoulder, where flesh becomes metal; I love to feel the heat of his body, the thudding of his heart, the tickling of his soul. It’s not enough. I need him closer, harder, deeper. I take his hands in mine, guiding them to the buttons of my blouse, and he pulls apart immediately. I don’t let his hesitance make me falter and I keep unbuttoning the garment. His eyes follow my movements, his swollen lips are slightly parted and his hot breath fans over my cheeks. I start to remove the blouse, but he grasps my wrists, trapping the haste inside a time loop. _Do you trust me?_ He leans forward and kisses me softly. _Yes_. His lips travel south to my neck, sliding the blouse down my shoulders as his mouth marks the skin he's peeling off. _Close your eyes_. I close my eyes and the piece of clothing hits the ground in a deaf sound.

‘I’m dropping the cooking lessons’, I blurt out, allowing him to push me backwards and lay us on the mattress.

‘Did you now?’, he mumbles, the question getting lost between his tongue and my collar-bone.

‘Yes’. Bucky lifts his head and looks at me with plain happiness dancing in the bright blue of his eyes.

‘So, I get to have you all by myself tomorrow?’, the smug tone, eyebrows raised and playful smirk are a brand new gesture that I find nothing but heart-melting. Is he even aware of it? No, and that’s the worst thing about it.

‘That you do’, I grin and the dazed look of his eyes takes us to the very center of the universe. All alone in space and time. The two of us where we belong.

‘Well, then’, he quirks an eyebrow. ‘I guess I know exactly how we’ll spend our evenings from now on’, I let out a giggle as he buries his face in the crook of my neck and peppers kisses over my throat, his stubble leaving a tickling trace behind.

Bucky kisses me until we’re both panting, a tangled mess of limbs under the blankets. I fall asleep, his blue eyes printed on my mind, lulling my dreams. I wake up before is dawn, Bucky snoring softly next to me with his arm thrown across my stomach. I turn to look at his sere expression: this is the moment he’s most vulnerable. There is no emotion fracturing his features, no happiness tugging at the corners of his eyes, nor desire dilating his pupils or love lighting up his irises. The natural curve of his mouth makes me want to draw it with my own, his lips are slightly parted, his nose lets out the oxygen that makes his chest raise and fall and I wish I could keep him like this. Far away from them, far away from the memories, far away from the faces he can’t remember. He’s the most vulnerable because his past haunts him when he’s out of the reach of my love, that place where I can’t follow and protect him. Bucky’s innocence isn’t purer than now, when the world decides to give him peace for a little while, and I always pray it can be for a little longer.

I close my eyes, letting the hours slip through my fingers like moon sand and stardust. 

Bucky leaves to his daily run and the coldness of the dying night takes away the comfort the traces of his warm body left behind. The walls of his apartment spin at a languid pace around me as I wait for it to be late enough to head to the shower. My half naked body misses him, the urgencies my primal need arises are unbearable if he’s not here to satisfy them, or at lest, quiet them enough to clear my head. I grunt and get of the bed with a frustration unknown by God. Another week passes, in many ways different, in many others the same, but I welcome it with the gratitude it deserves.

I arrive at the café earlier on monday, much to Costin’s relief, and we get to work at once. Less customers than yesterday demand my attention, I manage to make it to the evening shift without fainting and Liana’s delayed arrival is no surprise. She apologizes to Costin and he simply glares at her, warning a last chance. As I assumed, he’s losing the patience and if Liana is unable to come up with a valid excuse, he’ll be firing her tomorrow. I sneak up to the lockers to make sure she’s alright, but the first thing I see are the nasty marks on her arms as she puts on her uniform. My breath hitches on my throat.

‘ _Liana_ ’, I gasp, stepping closer to take a better look at her arms. There is a bruise in her wrist and two massive red-marks on both his upper arms. God, what on earth?

‘ _I told you it was nothing_ ’, she hurries to dismiss my attempts to formulate a question and puts on the blouse in hurried, clumsy motions. I would expect her to believe that I accept her lame excuses about getting late, but I’m not that blind.

‘ _Don’t lie to me_ ’, my tone is stern, the concern replaced by anger. Is she taking me for a fool? ‘Someone is–’.

‘ _No one is doing anything!_ ’, she lashes out at me. ‘ _Leave it alone_ ’. I don’t stop looking at her and she sighs, closing her eyes to contain her defensive anger. I purse my lips, swallowing the accusations that threaten to cut off the ridiculousness of this situation. It’s obvious that something’s happening to her and the fact that she’s determined to stay quiet about it makes me furious. It’s silly that being friends we’re unable to talk to each other. ‘ _I know you worry about me, but this– I promise everything is fine_ ’, lies. ‘It was an accident, really’. Unstoppable lies.

‘ _Okay_ ’, I murmur and she walks out of the small room in long strides.

Liana doesn’t even look at me for the rest of the evening, barely nodding at me when I ask a question about the customers and the orders. The distinctive smile she wears, the energy of her movements, that mischievous grin she gives me when a guy compliments my service, those gestures that are so herself are gone. Colors were drained form her eyes and face, like life itself has abandoned her. She’s not the Liana who’s not afraid to dismiss my whining, the one who pisses me off and offers me coffee when I have a bad day, she’s not the Liana with the determination of moving to Italy and do good by herself. Something happened to that girl, I lost her at some point, and because I didn’t notice, I don’t know how to start looking for her. 

We part without a word and another kind of hurt stings in my heart. It’s angst. I don’t know how to fix this, how to help her, that’s why it’s exasperating. It’s one of the consequences of being held inside a mansion with hateful, psychotic siblings for so long; one does not learn how to emphasize that easy. Do we have to go through the same as Bucky and I did? Recognition, friendship, love. Does it work the same? Friendship, true friendship, is about getting into someone toes until they spit out what’s wrong? Is it about invading the other’s privacy for their own good? In Bucky’s case, I had to be extremely careful with every single thing I said or did, although in many occasions, we could have a normal conversation without him throwing knives at me. I should probably keep that thought to myself. Anyways, Liana has shown deep caring towards me, as well as patience and acceptance to my silence. What have I done for her? Helping her choose a dress? Is that it? No wonder she’s not willing to talk to me about the bruises. 

I must be mature enough to face her and ask, in a clever way, what is happening to her. I don’t have to make her feel attacked, inferior, much less ashamed of her situation. Liana doesn’t deserve to be treated any less than good, and if I could work things out with a former soviet assassin, I can definitely sort this out with an 18-year-old girl who likes ponies. Woman up, girl. 

‘Welcome home’, I barely hear Bucky’s greeting as I enter my apartment. Some kind of answer comes out of my mouth, but I’m still focused on Liana. I leave my stuff on the bed, which I made today (yay!), and walk robotically towards him, kissing his cheek while he puts down whatever he was holding to prepare dinner. ‘How was your day?’, he turns around and wraps his arms around my waist, leaning over the sink and bending his legs a little so we can be in a more comfortable position. He finds my short stature a lovely aspect of my physiognomy and I punch his chest while he points it out.

‘Good’, I smile and try to sound nonchalant, kissing his lips softly. He frowns, not returning the kiss completely. Of course he doesn’t buy it, he was trained to read body language and I’m an open book. He’s pointed out that before as well, and he received a punch… as well.

‘What happened?’, he inquires, straightening up and tightening his grip on my body as a natural reaction to protect me. 

‘What do you mean?’, I play fool and he glares at me.

‘There’, he presses his index finger in-between my furrowed brows. ‘You’re worried about something’, I let out a heavy sigh and now he’s the one frowning, his precious eyes full of concern.

‘It’s Liana’, I finally say. ‘She came to work with these horrible marks on her arms, and she had a huge bruise on her eye the other day’, a cold shiver runs up my spine at the memory of her nasty wounds. I haven’t formulated any theory, to be honest, ‘I have a bad feeling about it’, I look down and rest my forehead against his shoulder. Bucky's huge figure ends up enveloping my distressed one and even rocks back and forward, like I'm a little child he's trying to soothe. 

‘Want me to take a look?’, he offers and I consider his suggestion for a moment, then, however, I shake my head.

‘I don’t want to feel guilty for spying on her’. 

‘I’d be the one spying on her’, he says half joking. I purse my lips: this is not Bucky’s responsibility. He can't solve my problems nor win my fights. I'm supposed to confront her about the matter and assure her that she can trust me, that I won't judge her and that I'll do everything I can to help her. That's the friend she deserves.

‘I’ll just talk to her’, I say in a firm tone and Bucky nods. He respects my decisions and only intervenes when he considers suitable. The subject is avoided for the rest of the evening, Bucky puts on some Stevie Wonder while I bake a triple chocolate cake for him and we go to sleep early that night. 

I stay in my apartment, alone, and curled up in the middle of the bed, the tiredness of my mind preventing more thinking deprive me from sleep. There's this emptiness in the room, maybe the lack of Bucky's body, I'm so used to his calming presence sharing the silence with my breathing that my skin is lonely without his touch. Tonight, we test our power over the longing through the wall. Then fear shatters the stars. I hear Bucky’s loud screams and my eyes shot open, but I don't go to aid him right away: he told me once, that particular night he pretty much destroyed his apartment after a terribly vivid nightmare, he didn't want me to get hurt if things went out of control. Waking him up was fine, talking him out of it and calm him down, but if he was the one who snapped out of it, pacing through the room, or if he as much as jumped out of the bed, I had to stay were I was, pretend to keep sleeping and wait for him to come back to me by himself. It's hard not to respond the way my instincts tell me, it's hard to stay where I am and let him deal with it alone. I hear his door being slammed closed and his heavy steps hurry downstairs. That's what he does when we know I can't help him. I try to go back to sleep, but it's useless. I’m thinking again.

I'm still thinking too much on my way to the café the next morning, I'm thinking about how will I approach to Liana and if Bucky is okay. I don't notice the “closed” signal on the glass door, nor the three figures standing by the counter, their quiet conversation is filtered by my distraction, and it's not until I'm facing them that I acknowledge everything around me. Three pair of eyes settle upon me and I gasp at the familiar softness of one of them.

‘ _Mr. Tanase_ ’, it's been so long since I last saw him that I had forgotten the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and the silver shinning of his gray hair. The old man smiles at me.

‘ _Hello, dear_ ’, he greets me. I had forgotten his charming voice as well. ‘ _You look wonderful_ ’, he praises and I'm still unable to speak. The shock of seeing him so suddenly has stolen my ability to speak. I blush and look down. ‘ _Dear, I’d like to talk to you and Liana_ ’, he informs, getting to the point. 

‘ _Of course, sir_ ’, I answer and he starts to head towards the lockers’ room. I look at Liana and she gives me a sympathetic nod. I don't understand a thing about this, but I patiently wait for the explanation my beloved boss is about to reveal. Costin’s expression is stern, as if he's containing a reaction, holding back words. I frown and when we're standing face to face in a small circle, I dare to ask. ‘ _Is everything alright, sir?_ ’, insert face slap.

‘ _I’m deeply sorry for coming without warning, but–_ ’, I didn't notice the fatigue of his features, the desolation and the weight of deity shrinking his figure. Something inside my chest constricts, anticipating the unspeakable. ‘ _Mrs. Tanase’s cancer…_ ’, oh, no. Please, no. ‘ _It’s not getting better_ ’, a sob crawls it's way up my throat. ‘ _I won’t be able to sustain the expenses of both the café and her treatment, so I will– I will have to sell the café_ ’, I've never heard him stutter, faltered on his words or movements. Mr. Tanase has always been strong, no matter what awful problem knocks at his door, he's always known how to raise above them. This time, however, it is beyond him to pull on a strength long gone, he's exhausted, I can see that in the weak trembling of his lips and the crystalized look of his once gentle eyes. I can barely stand it. ‘ _I just want you to know that I’m beyond grateful with you, for showing your understanding towards me and my family, and I wish I could give you more, what you deserve, at least_ ’. To hell with the café, to hell with salary. This man here is losing the woman he loves, the mother of his son, and in the turmoil of his despair, he's kind enough to apologize for something that is not his fault. I hate the world for doing this to him, to them.

Liana takes a slow step towards Mr. Tanase and hugs him tightly. 

‘ _Thank you for everything, Mr. Tanase_ ’, she whispers and kisses his cheek. Their hug is brief, simple, yet Liana pours every ounce of gratitude into it. She's not crying, instead, her bottom lip is trapped between her teeth, the plum surface getting overly red.

‘ _Oh, little one_ ’, Mr. Tanase cups her face when she pulls away, giving him an encouraging smile and a light squeeze to his hand. That is the way they choose to make this less painful, because somehow, a strong bound was built without us realizing how, we feel it there, in the words we don't speak. But then, my boss turns to me, and the crack of my heart is heard by all of our ears. ‘ _Dear one_ ’, his tears are about to fall while mine run freely down my cheeks. 

Stepan Tanase, my boss, the charming, strict man who gave me this chance to move on with my life. I remember, at first, how insecure I was, the hesitance in my movements and the fear to betray the trust I earned from him and his family. I remember that time I dislocated my ankle and he offered me his home to recover, his patience and attention to my every need. Mrs. Tanase, the kind woman who offered me her home, her food, her whole attention. They reminded me that it was okay to be hurt, to let people worry about you, to take care of you. They prevented me from forgetting what a family was, and now, they're losing a part of it, and again, there's nothing I can do to stop it. I know I can't, it's impossible, but still… 

‘ _I’m sorry, sir_ ’, I don't care about being effusive. I want him to know that I'm sorry about his wife, about the café, about himself. I cling to him, my fingers fisting his shirt. ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’, I muffle against his shoulder. He chuckles and wraps his arms around me. Fatherly love long lost, long missed. ‘ _I don’t know how to tell you how much– how much I–_ ’, he shushes me.

‘ _You don’t have to, because I know_ ’, he says in that reassuring tone of his. ‘ _I know_ ’, he rubs my back up and down, sniffling too. Our hug lasts a few more seconds, but we don't let go completely.

‘ _Can I– can I go visit you and Mrs. Tanase?_ ’, I ask in a hesitant tone. 

‘ _She's… not comfortable with many things_ ’, he explains and I nod. When people are sick and something in their physical appearance changes so drastically, they become uncomfortable with other people seeing them. However she looks like now, I'm sure it should not be a way she'd like to be remembered. Maybe that's not how I want to remember her either. 

Mr. Tanase hands us an envelope, but I shake my head, rejecting the money. If he's selling off the café because he needs money, I won't make him give a cent. I don't need it, not as much as he does. Liana refuses to accept her payment as well. He thanks us and gives us a last smile before turning around and drag his fatigued figure out of the room, Costin following him, not before giving us a quick hug to express what words are unable to. Gratitude is not an speakable noun, is a verb, if that makes any sense. My eyes linger on the door that was closed behind them, and just like that, it's over. Images are left behind, a page of an album full of happy faces, stressful nerves and warm coffee. The blue-haired girl who started to take pictures of this part of her life isn't the same who is turning the page around: she's learned, she's changed, and it's wonderful, like Mr. Tanase said. One day, when the album comes to an end too, she'd like to go back here and see by herself that, indeed, no color stays the same as she thought in the beginning. Not even blue. 

It takes me a moment to fully settle down my mind, process what's happening, and Liana is already out of the café. I said to Bucky I was going to talk to her. She's walking fast towards the bus stop. I have to talk to her. She's looking at both sides of the street, anxious. I must talk to her. She braces herself even though it's hot outside. The bruises. I have to talk to her about the bruises.

‘ _Liana!_ ’, I yell, running in her direction. She turns to look at me, but at the worst timing, the bus arrives and she gives me a fake apologetic smile.

‘ _I'm sorry, I have to go_ ’, and then she climbs on the bus, not even looking back at me, nor waving at me from the inside. I stand still there until the bus disappears around the corner, the slight ache in my lungs reminding me that I running wasn't the best idea and that I should take out my inhaler. I do, the medicine slowly working on my agitated breathing while my head lowers its pace in the hustle of my thoughts. Liana didn't want to talk to me, it doesn't matter what about, she's avoiding me, and now that we won't be working together, she'll go as far away as she wishes. 

It's been a long time since my movements were automatic. Two steps become two million to the small garage that I use to park my bicycle, one minute becomes one thousand yards between the present and the past. The emptiness is back, the monotony of the buildings and streets transform them into a blur of colorless colored shapes, my bicycle gets lost into the mist of the sun and the wind suffocates the distance. Home never reaches my fingertips, I cannot foresee the safe place where I belong, his arms, my home. It's at the other side of the eternal spinning of the stairs and I'm tired. I'm just so tired...

‘Welcome– What is it? What happened? Are you hurt?’, too many letters. Too many meanings my ears fail to filter into noises. Or is it the other way around? 

I feel his hands gently pulling closer in blind motions, I sense the heavy concern that must be weakening his gaze and the back of my legs hit the edges of the bed when I can't breathe anymore. Bucky doesn't speak, or I stopped listening to him because every sound is turn into lights falling from the ceiling. I'm aware of how delusional I am, of my unreal existence. I'm numb. There's a buzzing in my head, that's why I can't understand what is he's saying. I think he's asking permission to remove my uniform. I nod. He doesn't touch me if he doesn't have to, he’s focused on the clothes he's taking off: he slides the blouse down my shoulders, but there are no kisses this time, then he unbuttons my jeans and kneels to untangle them from my legs. He pushes me down the mattress and I found myself already stripped off my uniform, a big shirt covering most of the exposed skin. Bucky's shirt. He curls around me forming a cocoon, a shield, using his own body to protect me from a harm he cannot see, much less stop. He lets me adapt to his proximity, to recognize his warmth, and my senses start to embrace his presence, allowing him to get closer the way I need. 

And I fall asleep. I'm not sure in which moment my eyelids gave up, but when I open them again, I'm standing in the middle of a familiar room that it's not supposed to be this real. 

_The walls are painted white, as well as the furniture and the floor. The smell of cleanness and death is thick in the air and a young girl is standing next to the hospital bed. Her eyes are glued to the old woman barely breathing, the prominent wrinkles now softened by the morphine running through her veins. The girl's fighting back the tears. The silence is unbearable, is sinking her down and burying her alive. She's impotent, just like the last time, she can't do anything. She's useless._

_'Robin', a weak voice calls her name. She didn't notice waking her up, and the moment their eyes meet, she hurries closer, leaning to hear her._

_'Hey, grams', she gives her a warm smile, taking the old woman's hands in hers. They're cold. 'How are you feeling?'._

_'Better, dear, much better', she has always been a good liar, hiding the truth from both friends and foes, but the girl sitting next to her knew exactly she wasn't telling the truth. How? She has been lying about the same subject for the last few moths. She's better too. A wave of countless emotions rush through her, she finds herself thinking about how many nights she's spent wondering why is this happening. Everything. Her brother. Her mother, Her father. And them. They said it was her fault, everything was her fault. Was this also her fault? 'What is it?', the old woman asks, her gentle features, in spite of being lost in so much illness, show honest concern. The girl doesn't answer right away. She ponders on the question for a couple of infinite seconds: what is it? It is the tiredness, the resignation, the awareness of the imminent outcome. It is the fear. She's scared._

_'I'm scared', her thoughts transgress her skull and her mouth is pouring down with truth. 'I don't want you to leave me', a sob gets stuck in her throat and her eyes burn with yet unshed tears. It is not just the fear of death, but the fear of loneliness. She doesn't want to be alone._

_'I won't, I promise', the old woman squeezes their joined hands._

_'But the doctor said– he said that you–'._

_'The doctor doesn't know everything', there are tears in someone's cheeks and defiance in someone else's words. They stay quiet for a moment, their anguish is palpable even for those who haven't heard their inner shouts. The young girl doesn't hold back the tears, they stream down her face and wet her shirt, and she knows it will end soon. 'You will never be alone'. She wants to believe it, but she will be alone sooner than her last breath and then no one will come back, not even her. She won't belong anywhere._

The room is cut in half by the blade of a knife that sinks into her flesh. Blood is spilled over the floor and silver blue eyes turn red. She pulled the trigger, someone died, she called her name, no one heard. Two pairs of eyes look at her with disdain. She's weak. She couldn't save them. They're gone. She let them go. The young girl is falling into the abysm of her memories, millions of shapeless voices call her name, it's cold and she lands in the snow. _Wake up, Robin_. Her limbs are frozen and her soul is on fire. _Wake up, Robin_. She's calling for help, but there's one there. Wake up. She's alone. 

_Wake up, Robin_. 

She's awake.

Bucky's shaking me gently, calling my name, shushing my screams. I'm sweating, sobbing, trying to hold on to him and don't let go like the little girl did. _You're not a little girl anymore_. I cry harder, the memory of my grandmother hurting like a million knives, Mrs. Tanase's face blending in the image, reminding me that I've lost yet someone else.

‘It was just a dream’, Bucky assures, his arms and legs tangle around mine to ground my mind and gather the fragments of my soul that traveled to a dark place. He's taking me back to him. ‘I’m here’, he kisses my temple. ‘You’re safe’. I should feel that way, safe from a disembodied harm, safe from a nonexistent threat. But I don't. The ghosts surround the bed, those demons seem more powerful than his love and I'm terrified. I wasn't strong enough to fight against them once, and now they're taking away a part of my life that resembles the one I lost. I'm losing them again.

A tinkling melody fills my ears. Bucky's humming along it and I recognize the lullaby; the music box. Our secret. I didn't feel him looking underneath the pillows and take out the music box, nor grab my necklace to wind it up and open the artifact. We let my sobs and the melody embrace us in a mantle of peace, Bucky's strength does not falter and he keeps me as close as he can, the cracks of our bodies finding their way together easily. Leftovers of humans, rotten to the core, broken to fit. The night swallows us whole and I fall back asleep. Not alone. Never again.

I wake up when the sunlight shouldn't be this dim. I blink to adjust to my surroundings and I suspect is past midday, probably evening already. The spot next to me is empty: he's gone. My hands start to shake, my breathing is ragged and I'm panicking in an instant. I'm alone. 

‘Bucky?’, and just like the mere sound of his name in my lips had the power to conjure him, his blue eyes become part of the messy painting in front of me. He's coming out of the bathroom, newly showered, clean clothes and wet hair sending shocks of relief through my chest. I knew. He wouldn't leave me. I know. I'm not alone.

‘Hey’, he greets me with a weak, loving smile. I feel like I can breathe again. ‘Stay there, I’ll just–’, he turns to the kitchen and walks over the table, picking up a tray full of food and heading towards me. He kneels and I sit up, his movements are careful as he puts the tray on my lap. 

‘Thanks’, I whisper, looking down at all the food he selected. Healthy food, he'd say, most of it fruit. 

‘I read that Greek yogurt, bananas, coconut and honey make you feel happy’, a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth; my Bucky, taking care of me in ways no one has and doing what is beyond his own expectations. 

‘Thank you’, he nods and kisses my cheek, giving me some space after making sure I can eat by myself. He sits on the couch and busies himself on his iPod, and I bet he's playing Candy Crush. I eat in silence, my stomach thanking some food, at last. I feel somehow numb, somehow hyperaware, overwhelmed by the glimpses of my past that baited my sleep, but Bucky's attentions are more than enough to shoo them away. His eyes dart in my direction every few seconds, always making sure I don't need his assistance. I notice he's sitting in a position that allows him to jump into action if needed, and I wonder if it's innate or a side effect of what was done to him. This happens more often than not, that Bucky's first survival instinct comes in the form of defense: uptight, frightened, ready. Nothing will erase that mark off his skin, he carries it with him, the metal arm an ice-cold reminder of that, and while my love might be able to disguise it, relieve some of the height, share it, it cannot be healed. Suddenly, I'm uncomfortable in my spot, I grimace while I stand up to stretch my rigid legs and arms, and of course, Bucky is at my side in an instant, his hands orbiting around me to catch me if I fall. ‘It's okay, I’d like some fresh air’, I assure him and walk towards the door that leads to the balcony. 

As I suspected, it's already evening. The sun is dying there behind the horizon and the wind blows gently to my face, it washes away what water may not. A bouquet of yellow roses catches my eyes, they were not here yesterday, so Bucky's must have brought them sometime when I was asleep. They're carefully accommodated on a flower vase, the bright color of the petals turning orange, sun-kissed, and I approach to them to smell their sweet scent. I sense him behind me, then his arms snake around my waist and his chin rests on my shoulder. I lean against his taut body, putting my hands over his and caressing his knuckles. 

‘These are beautiful’, I gesture at the bouquet and he kisses my shoulder to express his gratitude. We rely on the other's serene aura and our breaths mingle with the air, just as quiet, just as soft. He sighs and his hold tightens. I feel a question coming up.

‘Do you wanna talk about it?’, there it is. I want to talk about many things, the café, Mrs. Tanase, my nightmare. Grams. I want to tell him all of it, yet my mind is fatigued, and I could only compare such exhaustion with the soreness of muscles after running for too long. That must be it; my mind ran so far that my body couldn't keep up. 

He waits, ever so patient, and brushes his lips over my cheek to encourage me. He wants to know what's troubling me, he's desperate, I can tell by the way his arms lock me into his embrace. He's begging me to open up to him, and several minutes later, I have enough energy and consciousness to do it. 

‘Mr. Tanase closed the café’, I murmur in a hardly audible tone. He doesn't comment on my revelation, instead, he remains silent and lets me take my time to continue. My eyes are focused on the view in front of us, the city under our gaze has that bluish darkness between sunset and moonlight, Bucky's nose is rubbing the back of my neck, trying to mollify my disturbed thoughts. ‘His wife– she's… she’s dying, Bucky’, a sob strangles my words. ‘She’s dying’. I'm crying my heart out, pouring the impotence, the grief, the anger into each tear. I turn around and cling to Bucky for dear life. I'm like a porcelain toy that is being torn apart by the hands of its creator, with rage, in the blindness of cruelty, and my heart aches for those who part from this world and will never come back. We wait until I recover, the sobs that Bucky's shirt muffle are reduced to sniffles and my grip loosens up a bit. He doesn't brake the hug, he leans forward to cover me completely with his large frame. I rest my cheek on his chest when I speak again, letting the words flow without restraint. ‘Two years ago, when I came here, I didn’t know what was I going to do with my life. I had money, I had a place, but me– I– there was something wrong with me, I– I couldn't– but Mr. Tanase helped me fix what they–’, I close my eyes and travel back to those first days at Bucharest. I remember the signal on the café's door saying there was a vacant for a waitress. I remember my interview, the questions Mr. Tanase made and how nervous I was. ‘He helped me get the permit to work in Rumania and even though he was strict at first, I enjoyed working with him. It felt like I had a purpose after– after what happened with my parents’. I feel Bucky's arms stiffen around me, like the agony was channeled through my soul to his. ‘And his wife, she– she took care of me when I dislocated my ankle, all of them, they took me in’. The potato soup, once forming a grimace on my face, has turned into a treasured memory of the times when I didn't have anyone to care about me. ‘They didn’t deserve this’, I wasn't expecting the heavy sob that was looming from the back of my throat, the knot forming in my stomach and the massive waves of suffering clashing against the walls of my ribcage. They're pulling me down and it's getting hard to breathe. 'They– they deserved something different, something–', something better.

‘Robin’, Bucky whispers. ‘Little bird, I'm sorry’, and another heavy sob finally bends my knees.

I crumble into Bucky's arms. He's supporting my limp body with the smallest portion of his strength and absorbs every tear I shed. It's unfair. It shouldn't happen, not to them. Good people must be happy, they deserve it, kindness must be paid with gentleness, caring incites protection, humbleness earns gratitude, and love... People who love deserve to be loved. Then why is it happening? I don't understand, and I hate to feel this useless, this weak again. I know it's not my fault, that this is beyond my possibilities because cancer is a deadly disease, I can't stop it with my hands, I can't cure it. The fact only increases my impotence. Bucky hooks one arm under my knees and carries back inside the apartment. He walks over the couch and positions us so I'm laying on top of him, the crown of my head tucked in between his chin and his chest, cradling my fractured being. The minutes pass by unnoticed and I'm barely aware of the hour, the slow motion of his light touch on my back and the brushing of his lips on my hair alleviate the uneasiness of my nerves. Silence envelops our tangled figures, the breeze of the night that leaks from the window is warm and welcome, and the sound of Bucky's heartbeat drops an octave to disappear almost completely. So calm. 

‘I dreamed about my grandma’, I blurt out. ‘About the day she died’. I count the minutes it takes him to collect enough courage and reply. One. _You're not alone_. Two. _I'm not alone_. Three. _I will always be with you_. Four and five. _Always with you_.

‘How did she die?’, Bucky's voice is hoarse. The question is thundering, devastating.

‘Brain tumor’, I sigh out. ‘Malignant’, I grimace, seeing every letter plastered in front of me, like in the diagnosis the day I read it. It burns, both on the paper and my memory. ‘Nothing they could do’. Even though I'm far more calmed than before, this subject is not easy to bring up. 

‘What was her name?’, but Bucky makes it less painful. I'm comfortable with him asking about my grams, though it's something that has been hidden for so long that I taught myself to overlook it. It's odd, now that I think of it, that whatever I didn't want people to know, to see or even to hear, I would bury it. I would bury it in a deep place where I couldn't find it anymore. And I wish I hadn't. Her name is swimming on the surface, right there at the reach of my hands, and I take it.

‘Barbara, Barbara Dawson’. _No_. I let out a dry chuckle. ‘She never liked to be called Barbara, though, like I didn't like to be called Gabrielle’, I explain. ‘She said her name didn't match her face, so she made up a nickname’, the nickname gets stuck on my throat. It hurts. 

‘What was it?’, Bucky asks, truthfully curious. I can picture his furrowed brows although I'm not looking at him. I inhale deeply. 

‘Bobbi’. Grams Bobbi, I add to myself. ‘Bobbi Dawson’. Bucky lets out a low hum.

‘I like that’, he utters in a casual tone. I lift my head and look at him through half-lidded eyes.

‘Yeah, I like it too’, I admit. I straighten up, sliding off him, and we sit on the couch, his right arm remains behind my shoulders to keep me close to him.

‘What was she like?’, he leans to his side and rests his head against mine. 

‘Smart, affective, and very funny. She used to spend summer with us, before we moved to Russia’, I smile to myself, cherishing the images of my grandmother laughing with me, her wrinkled features shinning with joy. Then, another memory pops out in my brain. ‘I got to know The Rolling Stones because of her, you know?’, Bucky's head snaps to me and there's a huge grin on his lips, eager to hear more about it. ‘We were having tea and my mom put some classic music on, but grams was like "ugh, isn't that boring?", and then handed my mom a cassette from the Stones', we laugh in unison when I mimic her tone of voice, even her expression. All trace of grief is hidden behind the sound of our laughing, and for a brief moment, it's almost forgotten. Gone. 'We would dance all around the house after that'. In my room, in hers, the garden, the kitchen while she baked those great lemon cakes for tea. I can't remember which her favorite song was and the laughs die slowly, my lungs are filled with sorrow again and a gray mantle covers my mouth and eyes. I'm breathing pain, pain for those who suffer and lose what won't return. No pain for me, nor for my family as a part of me. It hurts for them. I grimace and look down at my fidgeting fingers. ‘I know that my life, maybe even Alex’s, would have been different if she was alive’. The admission leaves us both cold. Bucky doesn't ask about my brother, not even when I mention my family, and he remains silent. Talking about Alex, the mere mention of his name, cuts as deep as the knife that he sunk into my flesh. My shoulders start to shake, yet there are no tears left to shed. I'm tired, empty, wrecked, and it's only when Bucky pulls me to straddle his lap and forces me to look at him, at the echo of the ocean that rumbles in his eyes, that I realize I'm trembling. 

‘My precious, little bird’, he whispers, moving his mouth against mine in a soothing way, every movement of his lips a crushing wave of sedatives. And then he kisses me. It's slow, wet by his tongue and the remains of my tears, endearing, the yearning throbbing in our hands and his love getting under my nails. Bucky bites my bottom lip and his fingers tug at his-for-now-mine shirt.

It's not the simple act of kissing, touching, not for us. It about the way we’re being touched, kissed. I grew up surrounded by caring parents, a loving brother and a wonderful grandmother, they showered me with affection, attentions, but their hearts were taking away when we moved to Russia. I knew nothing but cold glares and poisoned words, they turned me into a mechanical doll that could only be touched by violence and blood. And Bucky… I can barely imagine how must’ve been for him all those years as someone he was made up to be. He lived under snow, breathed metal and swallowed ice, he was destroyed and rebuilt, over and over again until there was just a human-shaped machine. And now that we're here, getting lost in the taste of our freedom, I can't help but love him with every fiber of my being, thank him for giving me back what I thought was gone, and I’m trying, I'm trying my hardest to do the same for him. We are no longer the mechanical doll and the human-shaped machine. Somehow.

We end up tangled under the blankets of the bed. At some point, the haste of my fingers remove his shirt and pants, at some point, my clothes are discarded by his craving for my skin, and at some point, my heart is beating against his mouth. We’re at peace, finally, the demons vanished from my mind, the ghosts ran back to their hidden place in the depths of familiarity, and Bucky's here, we're here, just Bucky and just Robin. Always and forever. His breath spreads over my naked chest, his nose brushes the valley between my breasts and my fingers play with the strands of his hair that tickles my collar-bone. I'm sure I will fall asleep soon, but then he tenses and my senses respond immediately to his sudden discomfort. I prepare myself. 

‘I– I have to tell you something’, Bucky begins and now I'm the one who's tensed up. ‘I didn’t tell you before ‘cause I didn’t want you to freak out’, the empty spaces he's leaving between each word increases my nervousness. He's hesitant, I can read it in his tone, hear it in the rhythm of his heartbeat. Bucky sighs, whispering: ‘I ran out of ammos’, like I can figure out what does that mean. I frown.

‘Ammos?’

‘For my… guns’, oh. _Oh_. Well, he can buy more, right? There are plenty of stores in Bucharest where he can find them, so I still don't understand why does it trouble him like this. ‘If someone, someday– so I have to go to–’. _Go_. The word drills my skull. _Go_. Is he leaving? Where? When? He's leaving. Bucky's leaving again. 

‘Are you– are you leaving?’, I ask, like saying it out loud would make it less real. He flinches.

‘Yes, but just a couple of weeks, I swear’, he hurries to clarify. I look up to the ceiling, thinking through what he said. A couple of weeks where? Russia? No, you don't get to Russia in two weeks and I'm sure he won't take a plane. It’s too much time, right? What does it imply for him to get the ammos? Is he going to _deal_ with someone? I don't know how exactly he’ll get what he wants, if he will have to sneak up somewhere, fight, _kill_ someone. Will he be out of danger?

‘Okay’, that’s my reply because any other word would give away my agony. 

‘I feel exposed, vulnerable, and I have to be ready to fight back, to protect you’, the struggle is palpable on his confession and his tone too, and I close my eyes tightly. God, I know this has to be done, not for me, but him. He can't buy guns, bullets, grenades or whatever weapon he can think of in Romania, nor the black market, so that place he's considering to go has to be an option he doesn't like completely. He has to be ready, he has to fight back if he's found, and in consequence, he has to protect me if they find him with me.

‘Okay’, I'm unable to elaborate on my answers. I'm worried and angry at the same time. Worried because I love him, I want him to be safe and calm, and angry because I shouldn't be this dependent, weak. Pathetic. I can't stand the idea of him leaving, leaving me, although he's not actually doing it, and he seems to read my thoughts, my inner war. He always does. Bucky lifts his head and brushes my chin with his fingertips.

‘Robin, look at me’, he begs. My eyes remain fixed on the ceiling and I bite the inside of my cheek to fight back a whimper. Seeing that I'm not responding, he starts to kiss my cheek, then my chin, nose and cheekbones, temple, forehead, and then all the way down to my neck, collarbone, shoulder and heart. ‘I’ll come back, I always do’, yes. He always does. I give him a tiny nod, defeated, and I see him grimace from my peripheral vision. I feel a tad stupid for torturing him like this, but I'm not in control of my emotions at this very moment. It's not fair to him, he's trying his best to make it easier for both of us, and I'm making no effort to understand him, and I don't know why. I too feel exposed and vulnerable, I want him here, with me and me only. Right where we are, his cheek pressed to my heart and his lips quivering between my breasts. I want him to stay. 

Bucky waits for me to digest the news of his temporal departure, and even though it's hard to ignore my reluctance, I woman up, and after a deep breath, I ask:

‘When are you leaving?’. He's looking down at me and I dare to meet his eyes: they're grayish rather than bluish. He's sad.

‘As soon as possible’, he answers almost immediately. I glare at him for his vagueness and actually see him curse himself in his mind. ‘Tomorrow’, he corrects. 

‘Can I know where?’. That's a bold move. Bucky doesn't talk about the places he's been before we met, he told me about Kiev and Moscow because agreed to talk it out, now however, knowing his destination would be a disadvantage for him, it would compromise his anonymity, and mine, so it's not surprise that he shakes his head, denying me the information.

‘I'm sorry’, he muffles his apology in the crook of my neck.

‘It's okay’, and I cradle his head, assuring him that I'm not mad. I couldn't, I'm just worried about his wellbeing and safety. 

Sleeping together doesn't seem right tonight. It would be logical to because we will be apart for the next two weeks, yet it's better to get used to the distance. It's kind of irrational: we don't sleep together every night, sometimes we need that same distance and time for ourselves, but it's the reason that makes it difficult to process what's going to happen. I bury my face in my pillow, trying to quiet down my yearning for Bucky's heat and arms, and my eyes refuse to close out of anxiety. I'm a mess, the bed is a mess, my head is a mess. I'm far from resting during the hours that swallow the night, I’m turning and tossing, I'm sweating, and by the time the sun rises behind the curtains and I hear Bucky knock at my door, I'm helpless.

He looks exhausted, as if he didn't sleep either. A faint sparkle lightens up his eyes when I open the door, and he seeks for contact, his hands quickly finding mine. 

‘Do you want me to pack up more food?’, I gesture at the table as we walk towards the kitchen, where I left a bag with fruit and boxes of juice for him to take. He smiles and kisses my cheek, grabbing the stuff and turning to put it inside his backpack. I realize he's ready to leave right away, wearing a cap and a hoodie, comfortable shoes and his most worn-out jeans. Disguised in a common outfit that can mislead any suspicious second glare. 

‘I’ll be fine’, he says, gratitude plastered on his face. ‘Thank you’, for one moment, I think he’s going to kiss me, instead, he leans forward and takes me in his arms, pulling me into a tight hug. I snake my arms around his waist and rest the side of my head against his chest. We breathe in the instant that will soon disappear when he leaves, and we break our embrace knowing that we will come back right here, this place where our humanity finds shelter. Still hand in hand, we walk towards the door; my heart is going to bleed and my legs are about to give up, but then Bucky turns around abruptly and the last drop of restraint is thrown aside as he presses his lips against mine. 

It's heavy and slow and frantic and burning. He pours every ounce of love, reassurance and longing into the kiss. His palms roam over my back, gently digging his nails into my clothed skin, and I pull him down, owning his mouth, letting him own mine. I don't notice him guiding me backwards until I hit a solid surface. Bucky's metal hand travels down my sides, my hips, my thighs, then he brings my right leg up while his flesh hand does the same with the other, and in a swift motion, he hoops me up, trapping me between the door and his taut body. I get lost in the powerful twisting of his tongue, the pressure of his muscles on the fragility of my bones, I love the slight sting of his stubble on my chin as he moves his mouth harder, and I tremble when his teeth sink into my bottom lip, somewhere in the middle of dominance and submission. He moans, I gasp, we burst in fever, we become fire and then we are costumed by it again. 

We pull apart, a loud sound hurting the sudden lack of fervor, and Bucky leans to brush his nose over my eyebrows like a final apologetic gesture. Up and down our chests collide and I feel a bite of coldness there, where the fragment of a promise paints his eyes and my hair with a never-ending blue. The star-shaped snowflake of the winter I endured without him. The promise, another secret, a reminder. After the passion is sedated, he settles me on the ground and without thinking, I reach behind my neck to unclasp the necklace, sliding the fine chain down and finding his hands, placing the jewel on his palms like I’ve done my heart on his chest. He looks at my actions and when he comprehends what I'm silently asking, he looks at me, startled. 

‘Robin, no. If I lose it–’.

‘I cannot open the music box without it’, I cut him off, my tone firm, but my words are begging. I bet even Bucky can see the sob stuck in my throat. ‘Do you understand?’, I lock my gaze into his, this time succumbing to despair. ‘Do you understand?’, I repeat and he nods quickly, closing his hands around the necklace in an iron grip, like he does his promise to come back. 

The next minute is filled with rumbling steps towards the door, unsaid pleas scream each other's names and I see him turn around, taking every color of my life with him. It's too much of what I shouldn't feel because I know he's not abandoning me, he’s doing it because it's necessary, because he must, yet this picture seem wrong, it should not be this hard to let go. Maybe my strong hope to see Bucky return unharmed, as bright as now that he's leaving, is distorting the facts. Something over a wooden box next to the exit catches my eye: the bean. 

‘Bucky, wait!’, I call after him and take the devise, hurrying in his direction. ‘Here, take this’, I hand him what I thought could serve as an inhibitor to my apprehension. Yes, I'm that ridiculous and dramatic. Bucky takes it hesitantly, frowning. ‘It's my old cellphone’ I explain, briefly showing him how to answer messages or calls and how to send them. ‘I already saved my number there’. We're standing at the top of the staircase, so Bucky is facing me thanks to the couple of steps he managed to climb down. I see a glimpse of my necklace behind the collar of his jacket. He takes the cellphone and gives me a sweet, apologetic look.

‘I’ll see you soon, little bird’, he says, kissing me for the last time. ‘Be safe, please’, and then he runs downstairs, like he wants to finish with the agony as much as me.

I can't stand watching him disappear. I'm overwhelmed by insecurity and it doesn't matter that I reassure myself that he's going to be alright and that it isn't as terrible as I think, I'm utterly afraid to be alone, and I'm not sure if it's just paranoia or something else. Given that I'm used to spend most of my time at the café, I resent Bucky's absence more than I expected. It's infuriating and stupid, to be honest. He'll be gone for two weeks, _two weeks_ , and I'm incapable of getting myself together and get on with it. I have a life, even without the café, the confectionary lessons, without Bucky, I should occupy myself on different activities, but of course, Robin Dawson has to do a number of it. At first, waves of fear and loneliness sink me down the bed, I miss him dearly, I wonder where is he, if he's feeling the same way, if he’s afraid. I eat, shower, take a walk or go out for a ride to clear my head, and it's enough to let me act normal. Sort of. Anger soon replaces the concern and anxiety, and I conclude that hormones are messing up with me for good. Alright, this wasn't the best moment for him to go all super-soldier-with-a-mission, he could have waited a couple of more days or asked me to come along, for that matter. Yeah, that was going to happen. We can't even go jogging in the morning without me throwing out my lungs and Bucky losing his mind. 

That last thought torments me for the next slow-burning hours. I'm pretty sure Bucky would fight death itself to keep me safe, grenades, knives, bazooka and machine gun included, the question is, what can I do for him? Physically. If we are in danger, under attack, am I going to stab someone with a spoon to defend him? If we're pursued, am I going to _run_? I'm a burden, a liability, a risk. He's constantly protecting me, from the most menacing mosquito, my own atrophied respiratory system, the past and the rest of the world: he's carrying a weight that is not his to bare. It's not fair. 

One week down. I lose the count of how many times I listen to "She's like a rainbow". Bucky's favorite song. My song. It's been a while since I put on music on the boombox, and it feels oddly comforting to listen to my old cassettes alone. It makes me feel better, in a way, doing the things that were such an important part of my life before I met Bucky. They defined me, they told who I was to the people that didn't want to see the young girl with tears in his cheeks and darkness in her eyes. She was colorless, except for her hair, and now she's alive. She breathes by her own, she owns herself, stands by her own, that's why she keeps walking without the brightest star of all that painted her hands with the sunlight. By the second week, I'm patiently waiting. He hasn't called like I suggested, nor he ever said at what time he'd arrived, but he shouldn't take long. I woke up early to clean both his apartment and mine, I showered and put on a dress. _A dress_. That one I bought a not so very special day and thought about wearing on our next date, which would take place this week, in fact. The white fabric is not that soft, but it gives a pleasant sensation to the skin warmed by summer, it reaches just above my knees and the sleeves cover my shoulders, protecting me from the sunrays. It's a good day to take a walk through the gardens, or lay on the ledge of the rooftop, letting the breeze play with the folds of my dress. 

I hear my cellphone ringing over the table of the kitchen, "The Imperial March" ringtone making me giggle, and a content smile spreads across my face. My heart is betting fast in anticipation thinking about him coming back, safe to my arms, showered by my love, and my legs move in long strides towards the table. I look down at the screen cellphone, but frown when I see Liana's name in the incoming call. My smile vanishes. I had forgotten about her completely: we exchanged no messages, much less calls, and this is as unexpected as alarming. Liana didn't want to talk to me the last time we saw each other, she avoided me, and I'm not sure if answering her is a good idea. I'm not mad at her, I'm hesitant. 

The call keeps going and I press the green button, clearing my throat before speaking.

‘ _Hello, how–_?’

‘ _Help me_ ', what? ' _Please. I'm in my house and–_ ’.

‘ _What the fuck are you doing?_ ’, a male voice cuts her off. It takes me one second to realize she's crying. 

‘ _Liana, where are you?!_ ’, my tone rises in panic when she doesn't reply. Her desperate begging in the background forms a tight knot in my throat.

‘ _Give me that fucking phone_ ’, I hear a loud slap, followed by a shriek. 

And the call ends. _No_. It was ended. Oh, God.

‘ _Liana_?’, the dead silence at the other side of line makes my blood run cold. ‘ _Liana_!’, I practically cry, tears forming at the corner of my eyes. The impotence blurs my vision, the terror, the uncertainty. My breathing turns into gasping, I'm paralyzed and shocked, unable to understand everything about that call. Liana is in danger. That's all I know. She was being hurt and she managed to scape long enough to call for help. But who is hurting her? Could it be… Oh, no. It's impossible. No. It just didn't seem possible. I knew that voice yelling at her. It was Andrei. That was his voice full of hate and violence, the sound of his hand against her skin. Andrei was hurting Liana. 

A switch in my brain snaps on. I don't have the time to think through it; Liana said she was at her house, she needs help. She begged for it. I don't bother to take my helmet or jacket, only cellphone and purse in hand I hurry out of my apartment, downstairs to… The parking lot? I'd take 30 minutes to get to her house, 25 in the best case scenario. Bus? 35. Oh, Lord. What do I do? I'm losing valuable time, my stupid brain is blocked by panic and Liana could die any given second. Liana could die. Jesus. Wait. Taxi. Yes, a taxi is the best option. Only fifteen minutes to her house, located in a private area near the Beneasa Forest, and there wouldn't be a problem with potential asthma attacks or delays. Hopefully. I run out of the building and call for a cab, which pulls over rather fast and I climb on, telling the driver the address of Liana's house.

It takes ages. I hear Liana crying, begging, being hurt all the way out of the suburbs. I'm fighting back the tears, because it's useless, because what matters now is to help her. Sure, how am I thinking to do it? Barge in the house and valiantly kick Andrei's ass? Hit him? I'm a 5'4 feet bundle of nerves, I'm asthmatic, clumsy, too small to be a threat. I let out a sob and close my eyes tightly: I'm useless. Useless. Useless. Useless. Despair pours down my cheeks and anger boils in my veins. My mind flashbacks to Russia, to that mansion with white, marble floors and black doors, where I was nothing but a disgrace, a shame to my family, very much so that my grandfather removed me from the martial arts lessons because I got beat up by my sister time after time. Old wounds tear open, broken bones ache between my sore muscles, and I find myself hating this wrecked human I've become, I hate this jaded body and crying soul. I wasn't, and I'm not, strong enough, not even to defend myself. How am I supposed to defend Liana? I need help. I can't do this alone. I won't.

I take out my cellphone again and look for the number that just popped out in my head, ignoring the impossibilities, clinging onto the hope that he will respond at the moment. It rings two times.

' _Hello_?'. Thanks heavens. 

‘ _Costin_?’, yes, you called him. Why are you asking?

‘ _Robin_? _What is it_?’, he sounds confused. I shouldn't have called him, his mother needs his whole attention, but I have to try. I have to reach as far as I can and do what's necessary to back up this situation. And there's no one else.

‘ _Send the police to Liana’s house, she’s in danger_ ’, I go straight to the point. We don't have time for explanations, for anything, for that matter. Liana's house comes into sight among the tall trees of the forest. ‘ _Call the police, now_!’, and I hang up. I tell the driver to park right in front of the yard, pay him and climb down, running like crazy towards the door. 

I'm not thinking straight. The sound of her crying is still drilling my ears, stabbing my chest, tugging at my legs, and when I see the door ajar, my heart starts to pump out blood. I open the door slowly, grimacing as it creaks, and I peep my head in, my eyes searching, scanning the living room to make sure it's clear. It is, and I don't know if I should feel relieved or alarmed. Probably both. I step inside, ever so careful, and look for any sing of movement. It seems the room is empty, allowing me to step further into the dinning room, but it is also empty. And that's when I notice the furniture has been moved, thrown aside with fury and terror, I see pieces of glass shattered against the floor and... and blood traces. Where were the neighbors? This mess couldn't have passed unnoticed by them. Someone must have heard, why didn't they checked on it? It doesn't matter. Not now. I gulp, gathering the courage to keep going. As I leave behind the dinning room and enter the kitchen, fearful and cautious, I face a gut-clenching view that drains all the life from my body.

Liana is laying on the floor, face down, most of her clothes were ripped apart and there are bruises and cuts in every space that shows her skin. How could this happen to her? Why didn't I intervene before? I could have prevented this by talking to her, listen to her, convince her to tell me what was going on. How is it that her parents didn't see? She had visible marks and her behavior changed. If I was observant enough to notice, why didn't they? This is our fault, we didn't take care of her, we let that man hurt her, humiliate her, and God knows what more. I don't have the strength to contain the tears anymore, I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand, kneeling next to her limp form.

‘Liana’, her name is muffled by my palm and my heavy sobs. I lean down to take her pulse and a relieved sigh comes out when I sense is still there. I turn her around carefully, cradling her upper half on my lap and clearing her hair away from her face. She's in a worse state than I thought: there's a long cut on her cheek and bottom lip, bruises in her chin, more recent red marks on her shoulders, and her breathing is barely audible. For a moment, I don't know what to do. I can't carry her out of here, nor can I leave her. Never. I just lay there with her in my arms, crying and suffering for her, putting together the remains of the girl that I care for beyond words. This girl, my friend. 

‘ _There you are_ ’, my head snaps up and I see him leaning against the threshold of the kitchen. Andrei. He's standing in a nonchalant position, arms crossed over his chest and wicked grin printed on his face. Charming, lethal, cruel. There is death in his big, hazel eyes. A sudden rush of nausea and disgust kick in my stomach, making it difficult to hold back vomit. ‘ _The pretty, little robin_ ’, the nickname on his tongue feels like a stab to my ribs. Little bird. The way Liev calls me as a mocking of my fragility sounds sharper in Andrei's lips. 

‘ _What did you do to her_?’, my voice comes out hoarse, yet a hint of venom can be tasted. Andrei scoffs.

‘ _I don’t know_ ’, he shrugs and takes a step forward. ‘ _I don’t care_ ’, his grin widens. 

‘ _Stay away from me_!’, I yell, tightening my hold on Liana, shielding her from his gaze and presence. ‘ _What did you do to her? Why_?’, I demand. He chuckles. This son of a bitch finds this funny. 

‘ _Don’t you get it_?’, he sounds truthfully surprised. Every menacing stride he takes towards us increases my fear, not for me, but for not being able to save her. I curl around Liana, trying, trying so hard to protect her from him. He laughs at my lack of response and I frown. ‘ _It was for you, I wanted to be with you without her stupid face around us_ ’, he gestures at her and realization sinks me down the floor. Oh, my God. He hurt her because of me. I am the reason he asked her out in the first place, he was looking for an excuse to come closer, to know me, to have me. I close my eyes, feeling stupid and guilty. ‘ _I only wanted to see you, no one else, just you_ ’. Stupid, stupid Robin. I sensed something was wrong with this man, but I never imagined what his ulterior motives were, and because of my ignorance, my neglection, Liana is suffering the consequences. 

Everything happens so fast. I barely have time to see him throw himself at me, his huge hands tearing Liana away from my hold. I scream her name and aim to reach to her, failing when he grips my wrists and pushes down, climbing onto me to immobilize me. I disappear, eclipsed by his broadness, and his laugh gets louder as he overpowers me. 

‘ _Get off me! Let me go_!’, I squirm underneath him and scratch his knuckles, kicking at the air, but he's heavier, stronger, and my efforts are dismissed with ease. ‘ _HELP_!’, I cry out, bitter tears mixing with sweat. No one's there. No one answers. No one cares. ‘ _HELP_!’, my lungs are burning and my throat is breaking. No one's there. Then Andrei is knocked out and Liana is half standing behind him, holding a pan. ‘Liana’, I babble, breathless.

‘ _Run_ ’, she commands, dropping the pan. ‘ _Now, go_!’, I shake my head, pushing Andrei's body off me.

‘ _Not without you_ ’, I say in an unexpected firm tone and she collapses again. I quickly crawl to her side to support her. ‘ _Come on, get up! Get up_!’, I help her to stand up and we manage to get out of the kitchen before I hear Andrei grunt behind us. 

I'm not sure what to do. The door seems far away, and even if we do make it to the exit, Liana can't walk further into the streets, there wouldn't be anyone willing to aid us. The neighbors. If they didn't answer to her call, it's less likely they do now. We're alone, and I don't think the police arrives soon. It's just Liana and me against this mad man. I look around to find somewhere to hide, something to use as a weapon, but Liana crumbles, unable keep standing. I drag her to the closet near the living room and lock the door behind us, putting some boxes against it to block any attempt to enter. The improvised defense won't last much, Andrei can easily kick the door open if he wants to and I better look for an object to use as a weapon, or shield. The closet is full of boxes, clothes and metal tubes. They might as well be useful. The sound of a ringing startles me, but then I feel something vibrating inside my purse: my cellphone. I take it out, looking at the screen lighting up in the darkness of the small room. It's Bucky. Heaven's sake it's Bucky. I press the green button immediately.

‘Bucky', a sob strangles his name. 'Bucky, I'm–’

‘ _Liana, Robin, where are you_?’. Oh, no. _No. No. No_. Not now.

Andrei woke up, he’s looking for us and his voice is dangerously close. 

‘Who is that? Where are you? What’s happening?’, Bucky asks and I catch the dread in every question. There's no time to explain our situation, a single fact is what matters.

‘Bucky, listen to me. Liana–’.

‘ _Let me in_ ’. Andrei found us. I hear his breath against the door, his hands forcing the doorknob and his feet kicking as he fails to open it.

‘Liana’s house, we’re at Liana’s house’. I rant, but then the door is slammed open and Andrei barges in.

‘ _Robin, watch out_!’, Liana jumps up and hits Andrei with one of the tubes.

‘ _Fuck!_ ', he cries. ‘ _You bitch_!’, he slaps Liana across her face. She falls down, but as if it wasn't enough, he climbs on top of her and starts to strangle her.

‘LIANA!’.

It's too fast. I drop the phone and throw myself at him, landing on his back and pulling at his hair, trying to get him off my dying friend. We fight for dominance, he squirms and I bite his ear. He turns around and aims to slap me, but somehow he misses: that's not stopping him. 

_Robin_.

I hear Bucky's screaming my name from the speaker. Andrei elbows backwards and he lands a good punch against my ribs. Bucky keeps screaming. Andrei knocks the air out of my lungs. _Bucky_. Andrei punches my jaw and the world starts to spin around me. Bucky keeps screaming. Andrei fists my hair, scratching my scalp, and drags me out of the closet. _Bucky_. I see Liana's lifeless body laying on the ground. Bucky keeps screaming. I kick, I twist my body, splinter my nails against the floor. _Bucky_. I taste blood in my mouth. _Bucky_.

And I realize I'm the one who's screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JEEEEEEEESUSCHRIST!!!!!! FINALLY GOD FINALLY! I'm so, so happy to be back to this. Almost three months and it's been a year since I started this fic. I can't believe it!!!! I'm sorry for letting you wait this long, but here are some good news: I'm two weeks away from finishing uni, I just finished those projects I told you about, which means that I'm clear and I'll be able to write more often. I'm excited to keep this story going, I'm thrilled to show you whats next, specially after this chapter, and I'm dying to read what you think of it. 
> 
> Things are getting messy again. Fluffy Robin and Bucky will be gone for a while and we'll see them face yet another dark phase in their life. I can't wait for you to read what's next! I really hope you like this one here, and also wish you forgive me for not updating. But as I said, I'll be around more, and I have a little surprise because I'm working on something else. Idea came up and I had to write it down, so stay tuned ;)
> 
> LOVE YOU SO MUCH AND I'VE MISSED YOUUUUU! Please, please leave comments! I WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU!


	22. Somebody to die for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU TO the amazing arizonapoppy for being my new beta!  
> WARNINGS: violence.

The cellphone shatters in my metal fingers.

 _Robin_. 

My name plastered on her bloody lips. _Bucky_. Her screams exploding against my ears. _Bucky_. Her crying rumbling inside my skull. _Bucky_. Her pain running through my veins. _Bucky_. Her voice getting lost in the time burning the distance between her suffering and my rage.

 _Robin_. 

I pulled the stolen Jeep over the roadside the moment I heard her whimpers, and I'm trying hard to not break the steering-wheel, too. There's a buzzing in my head that's drilling into my brain; it's too loud, raw, and it knocks the air out of my lungs. The pressure is excruciating, crashing through my ribs, pulverizing them under the layers of muscles and flesh of my chest. The cellphone is broken. I destroyed the only thing that could help me reach her. God fucking damn it. I'm choking on my own breath, unable to think straight and I can barely hold back a desperate shout. I close my eyes, counting ten and a thousand in a second. The uncertainty and the terror are killing me at the same pace. I don't know what was happening at the other side of the line, I only know someone was hurting her and that she was at Liana’s house. 

Liana’s house. 

Near the Baneasa Forest, Robin told me. 

Robin told me… And I saved the address on my iPod. 

We were having breakfast when she announced she was having dinner at her friend's house, I asked where that was and she didn’t know, so she asked Liana to message her the address. “You should save it,” she said, “God knows I could lose it.” Bless her mind for being cautious. I reach for my backpack, my hands searching for the goddamn device, practically burying my face into the bag until I spot the familiar surface of the touch screen. The violent trembling of my fingers makes it difficult to tap the screen to find the Notes app, but by some miracle, I manage to open it and look for the information that could change everything. How long has it been? Sixty-eight seconds. It's not quick enough. The address. Strada Codril Cosminului, Bucaresti 075100. I start the engine of the Jeep and the vehicle practically flies off, leaving a cloud of dust behind. 

I'm trying to focus on the road, on the fragility of the steering wheel under my knuckles and the cold sensation of the wind against my cheek-bones, clearing my thoughts. But Robin’s screams and crying still resonate in the cabin, they run up my spine and break through every vertebra. Flashing imaginary scenarios haze my sanity, worse images than my nightmares themselves playing right in front of me on the windshield. The blinding wrath forces me to pull over again. Damn it. How am I supposed to endure the two hours left to get to Bucharest without knowing who the fuck would dare to lay a single fingernail on Robin? I grunt; I don't care. Whoever it is, is pretty much dead. Before more deadly thoughts cross my mind, I take a few deep breaths and close my eyes yet again. 

What am going to do if she’s not there? What if I don’t know how to look for her? If this someone took her to a place where I won’t find her? What if I don’t find her at all? Fuck. _Fuck_. I can’t keep wasting time tormenting myself. I have to pull my shit together, move the hell on, find Robin and kill the person responsible for this. I must find her. I _will_ find her.

The speed, the rush, the despair send the Jeep down the highway and I ignore most of my surroundings, my eyes stuck on the never-ending road ahead. Two hours refuse to vanish under the wheels, making it unbearable to even look at the clock. I’m trapped between the black and dark blue of the windows, a million palpitations filling the distorted landscape at each side of me, then the city lights hit my face and I let out a strangled yelp. The two hours faded in a blink and I was disoriented enough to realize how the time was actually slipping through my fingers. When I start to recognize the buildings around me, I’m fully aware of my location and my brain traces the shortest route towards the Baneasa Forest, far in the north of the city. Another half-an-hour, but somehow my right foot crashing down the gas pedal swallows fifteen minutes, and once I’m getting closer, the bicolor lights of the police cars force me to stay good forty meters away from the house. I hear a switch being flipped and questions are drowning my neurons in an instant: how long has it been since the attack? _Where is Robin?_ Who called them? _Where is Robin?_ What are they still doing here? _Where is she?_ Why are there so many of them? I study the body language of the police officers: they’re looking for something, or rather someone. I see Liana’s unconscious form being carried out on a stretcher, but I don’t see that tuft of blue hair popping out of an ambulance or car. And then the steering-wheel actually cracks a little under my iron grip. _She’s not here_. 

I do a quick scan of the area: three possible routes of escape by car and multiple ones through the forest. There are a couple of ambulances of the Metropolitan Hospital as well, yet no houses are near enough, so the neighbors couldn't have noticed the incident, they couldn't have heard the screams… My jaw clenches, and I spot car tire marks on the parking lot. I narrow my eyes. Just as I take in the bigger picture, elaborating on my examination, the police cars clear out of the front yard and I have to turn off the Jeep to blend into the vegetation. They pass me by, unnoticed, hidden among the shadows of the trees. The moment they disappear on the road, I climb down from the Jeep and make my way towards the back door of the house, easily opened by my metal hand, my instincts kicking in as I enter cautiously through the laundry room.

I step inside the house. My ears filter every sound, my feet sense every the movement, and my eyes are no longer seeing, they're observing, reading the picture in front of me to extract any clue of what I'm looking for. Nothing seems significantly strange until I reach the living room: the furniture has been moved, thrown aside, signs of violence on their static positions. I smell a faint, almost-gone scent in the air, a manly cologne of some kind. Some things have been altered by the police officers, they marked the spots of the scene where most of the altercation happened. There are few blood drops on the carpet that lead towards a closet; I follow the traces. The smell of that manly cologne intensifies as the distance between each blood drop decreases, and when my eyes settle on the floor, it's like the attack is replayed in my mind. 

They hid in here. _Bucky_. Metallic tubes were used to block the entry. _Bucky, listen to me_. But the door was kicked open. _We're at Liana's house_. Someone came looking for them. _Let me in_. That voice. _Bucky_. He took her. Andrei. It takes all of my strength to not let out a shout. I look down, eyes roaming around the small space, trying to decode the mess, but it's hard to think straight when all I hear are Robin’s screams resonating inside the closet. He took her. Robin kept screaming. He took her and she cried, she fought, she begged. Robin scratched the floor. He dragged her out, and left Liana behind. My vision blurs, my ribs are smashing my lungs and everything is on fire. Blinding rage, gnawing guilt. I wasn't here to protect her, I wasn't here to keep her safe and now this bastard will... _Focus, Barnes_. They couldn't have left more than two hours ago. 

Questions outrun answers in a matter of seconds: where to? I know nothing about him, only that he's a businessman, and I've seen him just once, so I don't have a hint of a hangout other than the café. How? I don't know if the car he took was his, or Liana's, or Liana's parents'. I must take a look to determine which direction he headed. North, west, east, south. How long it took the police to arrive? Less than twenty minutes, I estimate. There has to be more left, something that could help me track them. I'm wasting time, I should be on my way to the Metropolitan Hospital to try some luck with Liana, see if she might know where Andrei could have taken Robin. And then a buzzing startles me. My whole stance changes: my shoulders lean forward and my legs flex out of reflex, immediately adopting an attack position. When I don't sense any potential threat, I frown and look for the source of the buzzing. Apparently, it comes from under this heather of sorts. I kneel down, reaching for the object, and when the surface becomes familiar, I let out a gasp: Robin's cellphone. She must have dropped it when he… _Focus, Barnes_. At some point of the fight, the device ended up luckily hidden from the scrutinizing gazes of the police men. Now someone is calling her, Costin’s name popping on the screen, but instead of answering, I let it ring until he ends the call and I turn the cellphone off. I put it in the inside pocket of my jacket and turn on my heels to examine the parking lot.

There's space for two cars, the tire marks on the left side. He has a sedan, probably automatic transmission, and it has a motor oil leak. Not a problematic one, though, given the very few drops trailing away from the area. It seems he took the route westbound through the forest. My senses sharpen, feeling, taking in the smells and noises coming from that direction: nature, wind, tree leaves, animals, and speeding cars somewhere in the background. The freeway shouldn't be more than three miles away, but it would be useless to guess which way he went. I curse under my breath and jog back to the Jeep. Next stop: the hospital.

The metropolitan area is a hard place to hide in. Too many faces, too many eyes. I consider the potential strategies to get inside the building as it comes into sight, the tall walls and big windows steal a grimace because I'll have to elaborate on my plans: climbing is hardly an option since there aren't trees or columns to use as coverage, the parking lot surrounds the hospital, on full exposure, and blending in as a visitor would require talking. Damn. Breaking in through a window might work, if I manage to find an open one. Damn again. I park the Jeep several blocks away from the building, opening my backpack to take out some tools: a couple of handguns, suppressors, infrared goggles, and a smoke grenade. Just in case. Geared up, I walk nonchalantly towards the hospital, mingling with the crowd, adjusting my cap to hide my face from possible second glances. As I approach the white building, my eyes search for security cameras and I draw an imaginary trajectory that only crosses over the blind spots of the lens. Then, I spot a doctor coming out of his car, far from the entry. Barnes, you lucky bastard. I act quickly, not giving him the chance to turn around to see his attacker. I knock him down cold, holding him before his unconscious ass hits the ground. I remove his coat, taking his scrubs, coveralls, a weird light-blue hat, and his ID from his bag, then I settle him on the back seat of the car. I put everything on before heading to the door with the "authorized personnel only" sign above. 

It's easy. Goddammit, I can't believe it is really this easy. No one frowns at me while I walk though the hallways, some of them actually nod at me, but most of them just ignore me. I must find Liana's room, so I look for the front desk. It's almost empty, and I casually sneak to the front desk where a nurse is doing paper work, too busy to pay attention to me. I take a quick look at the list: 37 persons were admitted today, 22 in emergencies, of which 18 were sent to the intensive care unit. Budescu, Liana. Room 54. Second floor. I hurry to the elevator, and no one comes along. It's not until I'm safely isolated behind the doors that I can breathe easily. The sweat runs down my back and my flesh hand is trembling. This is the first time I’ve had to do something like this: blend in, pretend to be one of them. All my past missions consisted on extraction, sanction, or infiltration. Undetected presence. No witnesses. I grunt. This is a terrible place and time to go on Winter Soldier mode, I have to remain under control because this mission hasn't ended. The doors slide open and I step out, turning my head left and right: I have clear sailing and I put the goggles on. 

I detect a few figures in the rooms to my sides, and there's someone inside Liana's room. Damn. I have to be faster, quieter. I am. Lights down, no cameras. The room is in complete silence, except for the noise of the machines monitoring Liana's vitals, and the soft snores of a woman sleeping on the couch. I have to make sure she doesn't wake up in the middle of my interrogation, that’s why I position myself behind her and muffle her until I see her arms fall down, totally out. Liana's eyes are closed, her mouth and nose covered by an oxygen mask, and her whole face is covered by cuts and bruises, as well as the exposed skin of her arms: a knot forms inside my stomach. I don't know her, I've only seen her a couple of times, but she's just a girl, she didn't deserve this damage, this violence, this pain. I promise that sick son of a bitch is paying hell for this. As if she's able sense the perturbed energy emanating from my body, now close to hers, Liana stirs slightly and her eyelids flutter almost open. 

I let her remove the mask at a lethargic pace, actually impressed that she can do it. I help her, careful not to touch her more than enough, removing my own coveralls for her to recognize me. Something of a frown forms on her brows.

‘ _You're..._ ' There's realization in her glassy eyes, her voice is dry, drained from all strength, barely audible even to my enhanced hearing. I don't know how strong the painkillers were that they gave to her, how lucid she is, but if I don't try and I let this one chance to get the information I need, I'll lose her.

‘ _Do you know where Robin is?_ ’ I hear myself blurting out. Smooth as always, Barnes.

‘ _Andrei_ ,’ Liana whispers. Damn, it hurts to hear her try. I nod.

‘ _Where?_ ’ I ask, just as low, and gentler. She closes her eyes. No. No. Please, just tell me. One word, that's all I need. I touch her shoulder, avoiding a hurtful pressure. 

‘ _Constanta_ ,’ her eyes still closed, she manages to answer. ‘ _Strada Turda_ ,’ she's fainting. ‘ _Constanta_ ,’ and she's out again. 

I stand there for a couple of seconds, the words burning in my mind. Constanta. Westbound. Two hours’ ride. I don't know how true that is, if there's any assurance that Andrei took Robin there, but I can't, I don't have anything more. I have to get going. I look at Liana's face, fractured and lifeless; I won't ever be able to thank her enough, to pay her back for what she just did. I give her hand a light squeeze, the only thing I can offer. And revenge. She will have her revenge by my own hands. I put her oxygen mask back on and turn around, yet when I'm about to head out of the room, I look at the window. Faster. I discard my disguise, opening the window and jumping out. Faster. I land skillfully on the ground and start to run away from the hospital, back to my Jeep. 

_Constanta_. Two hours. _Strada Turda_. Maybe one. The vehicle roars under my feet, I lose track of the blurred figures flashing by the glass of the windshield, I'm immersed in my own despair and my brain is set up on one command: find her. I recon the weapons I stole from the safe house in Odesa: ten handguns, five rifles, three boxes of grenades and one of smoke grenades, six revolvers, thermometric and stopwatch bombs, five machine guns, and a fairly large amount of ammos for each of them. I'm going to put a hole in every single inch of his body, I swear. The steering-wheel cracks for the second time under my knuckles, the anger rushes through my veins, as does the Jeep through the freeway. _Focus, Barnes_. Find her first, murder him later.

The breeze of the sea makes the air thicker, wetter. Salty and warm. Everything changes around me; the hazy rhythm of the city’s sounds and lights slows down and becomes a tranquil ghost moving with the tide. Strada Turda. I recall the streets and venues, the names and references on the map I memorized when I came to Romania, concluding that the Boulevard Mamaia is the best option. It's been five hours since I called Robin, five hours between us that allowed this bastard to do anything to her. Five hours between a bullet and his death. Faster. I scan the surroundings: people walking down the streets, the number of persons increasing as the number of security cameras decreases, which could make it slightly easier to sneak into the house. Which house? How do I know she is in a house? I'm getting closer to my destination, but I'll probably have to park the Jeep somewhere here to avoid any future associations. My heart starts to pump the blood faster; I can feel the adrenaline prompting my nerves to blossom out of my skin and my arteries inflating with rage. I shake my head. _Focus_. I take my backpack, putting inside all weapons I can think of. _One last time_. I climb down from the truck and start walking. _Find her_. It's deserted of people, abnormal sounds. It's just me, the light of the lampposts, the warm breeze, and humidity. I glance at the sign with the street name, confirming I’m at the right place. I don't see anything unusual, no hint of a car I've never seen, no house that could be object of suspicion. Panic rises in my chest, my breathing quickening as my eyes search for an unknown something. I don't know what I'm looking for, a trained viewing only roaming, trying to extract something, anything. Then a familiar trail of drops catches my eye: the motor oil leak. I actually let out a relieved sigh, closing my eyes to focus on what I’m doing. I make sure the area is cleared before I follow the trail down the street, where its end seems to approach the last house to the right. There’s a car, and a dim light coming out of a window. Like I did back at the hospital, I contemplate the most efficient strategy to get closer: climb up the rooftops. I easily do it. I jump over two rooftops until I'm standing one away from the house. This is it. 

Mere hours elapse like days. Imaginary clock hands tug at the fibers of my muscles and pure instinct commands my actions: I take out a sniper rifle from the backpack, two anesthetic injections, and put on the infrared goggles, positioning myself to have the perfect shooting range. I become The Asset, the Ghost, the Ultimate Weapon myself. Two targets, a clean death, no witnesses. I freeze in my spot. What the hell am I doing? I should go in there, take Robin and leave. That easy, that fast. Why am I marking the two figures when one of them is her? Damn. I blink, shaking off the urge to shoot. I study the insides of the house through the goggles, realizing that a man- Andrei- is walking into a room, standing in front of the bed where her body is lying still, in a vulnerable position. A wave of anger spreads across my chest, making me lift the rifle and tighten my grip on it. _Wait_. Am I really going to kill him? No hesitation, no mercy? Am I going to take his life and turn around? Without remorse, without looking away? But Robin... My fingers ghost over the trigger. How different is this from what I used to do? Is my love for her enough to justify his death? Damn, Barnes. I put down the rifle and lower my gaze, searching around the house for a potential entry.

 _Little robin_. 

My head snaps up. _Hello, little robin_. A nickname that burns in her memory, that I know it pains her to hear. I curse both of the voices that have spoken it. I see Andrei stalking towards the bed, his menacing figure triggering me to make a last leap to one of the balconies of his house. Breaking in is a joke, but restraining my body the moment I set a foot on the floor requires an inhuman effort. Goggles off, rifle up. The urge to run to her is getting harder to contain. I make my way across the empty room, peeping through the half-opened door to make sure it’s clear outside. The room they’re in is across the hall, but what’s happening remains locked in. The despair, adrenaline and rage, they all scream at me to move; I can’t. Something else is restraining them. Hesitation, fear of losing control because _I don’t do that anymore_. I can choose between life and death, between right and easy, but his next words oblige me to pause, cause me to falter. 

‘ _Why are you so serious?_ ’ I hear him ask. My jaw tenses. ‘ _I’m going to grab some water and when I come back, we are going to have more fun_.’ I close my eyes, slowly letting go of the hesitation. ‘ _So pretty_.’ His footsteps resonate in the space, piercing my skull, indicating his departure from the room, finally away from her. 

This is my window. I sneak out of my hiding place, pushing the door open to face the very horror, my worst nightmare, and his seal for death.

I hear a loud crash inside my chest, but not the sound of the rifle hitting the ground. My knees go weak, a short-circuit stunning my neurons. I don’t lose control, I lose the ability to think: Robin is tied up to the bed, legs and arms spread over the mattress. A thick, silver strip covers her mouth. Even though her eyes are closed, her eyelids are bright red, swollen, and there are cuts on her cheekbone and left brow. The abusive pressure of his fingers has marked her arms, the white fabric of her dress is torn at the cleavage, revealing part of her bra and breasts, and the hem is pulled up to her waist. She’s breathing, thanks fucking God, but is barely perceptible, in spite of her bareness. When I lay eyes on the place between her legs, a massive wave of nausea kicks the back of my knees, making them buckle: there’s a whitish, kind of translucent fluid on her thighs and stomach, her underwear nowhere to be seen, and there are bruises in… _No_. No, please. Not that. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t dare. 

Five hours. That’s the time he had to do this to her. Five hours I wasn’t there to protect her. Five hours she cried for it to stop. Every trace of hesitation vanishes along the remorse and mercy. I won’t blink and he won’t just die; he will suffer through it. It takes me solid ten seconds to dismiss those thoughts and register the state she’s in, and I stumble in her direction to untie her from the headboard.

‘Robin...’ her name comes out in a whimper, unshed tears burning in my eyes. ‘Oh, God.’ She squirms a little, fighting to open her jaded eyes. She probably has a concussion. I hover above her, yet the violent shaking of my flesh hand stops my poor attempts to touch her. I don’t want to touch her, it feels wrong and it terrifies me to hurt her with a single graze of my fingers. Robin is aware of the presence close to her, her eyes opening just a millimeter to meet my teary gaze. ‘I have to–’ I have to remove the duct tape. She blinks a few times, still disoriented. I inhale deeply, taking advantage of this to rip away the strip. Her deafening shout drills my ears. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I hurry to comfort her, grimacing at the visible stinging of her cheeks. The rest of her body twists at impossible angles, the pain too much to be concealed, and once her vision adjusts to her surroundings, her mouth opens and closes, dried, cracked lips trying to form the words.

‘I can't–,’ she’s gasping for air. I truly panic this time. My eyes are moving erratically fast, my head turning to each side to locate that one object she requires. I spot her black purse, tossed over a chair at the opposite side to the room. In the next blink, I’m holding the inhaler in front of her, careful not to brush much of her injured skin, and throw the purse inside my backpack. Even though her hands and legs have been freed, she’s unable to move them. I take a quick look at them and realize they’ve gone alarmingly limp, drained of their strength.

Robin’s chest inflates in desperate breaths, her weak, fatigued lungs slowly getting as much of the medicine as they can. My very own lungs struggle against my ribcage, they’re about to burst. A slap to the face might help to make them function properly. I’m holding the inhaler with absentminded fingers, inertia working better than consciousness, and it’s not until Robin lets out a hoarse cough that I remove it from her mouth. The moment she recovers enough from the asthma attack, her brown irises land on my face and several emotions flash across her eyes as she acknowledges me: relief, incredulity, longing, despair, hurt, fear, among some unreadable ones. I swallow, the taste of my saliva mixing with the blood I draw out from biting my tongue so hard. Robin tries to move, but her features contort at a sudden discomfort. She searches for the source of such immense pain and I follow her gaze down, where there’s a huge bruise right on her shin. It’s probably broken.

'My leg,' she sobs out.

‘Shh, it’s gonna be okay,’ I skim inside my pockets, annoyed at how long it takes me to find the anesthetics and inject one near the wound. I look back at her, trying with all my soul to sound reassuring. ‘It’s gonna be okay.’ Just when I’m about to reach out to her, I hear footsteps coming from the stairs, walking heavily, and my whole body tenses, reacting to the approaching threat.

‘Close your eyes,’ I whisper. It’s half a command, half a plea. She shakes her head, tears filled with terror rejecting my words. 'Robin, please,' I beg. He’s already in the hallway. 'Close your eyes.' Still doubtful, she complies. 

‘ _Who the fuck are you_?’

Robin shudders. I turn around. He freezes.

It would be so easy. A shot to the head, a clean death, a single breath. But he doesn’t even deserve that. I didn’t realize the room was this dark, this cold. His tall figure is suddenly in the spotlight, absorbing the energy orbiting in the air. He becomes a target and I become the weapon: I charge in his direction. A deep growl erupts from my chest, legs flexed, sharp strides breaking through the distance between him and me. I don’t blink while my metal arm hooks around his neck, guiding him out of the room. He lets out a strangled yelp, fisting the sleeves of my jacket as his back jolts forward the moment it hits the wall. The hallway encloses his subdued shouts. I effortlessly elude his punches and kicks. More pressure, less fight, more rage, less life. Something inside of me revels, it bathes the face in front of me with red paint and death. A crack vibrates loud enough to snap me out of it, and then I see his head twisted backwards, the glimpse of a bone popping out of the flesh.

He’s dead.

 _No_.

I killed him. 

That something has gone quiet, allowing my mind to crawl back to my head. I killed him. It wasn’t the Winter Soldier, it was _me_. On full use of my mental faculties, completely aware of what I was doing. I wanted it. I wanted him dead. I drop my metal arm and turn to throw up an empty stomach, feeling a cold sweat. I killed someone when I couldn’t have. Shouldn’t. Mustn’t. I had an option: take Robin and leave, but I stayed and murdered him, and I made him suffer through it, as I promised. The world begins to spin around me, causing me to throw up more bile. My heart is constricted by guilt and anger, not at Andrei, but at myself. I feel repulsive, for what I did and what I didn’t. I did what I’m best at; I didn’t stop. I am what they made me. _Fuck_. It takes me a couple of minutes to process the information, the emotions rushing before my eyes, and when I’m able to breathe again, I look away from his lifeless form.

It became true: no hesitation, nor mercy. I didn’t blink. I didn’t look away. The whole time my arm was locked around his neck, his pain encapsulating my senses, I was falling back into the hole I had started to creep out from, from that place where Robin’s colors don’t touch. _Robin_. I have to get her out of here. _Get her out of here, Barnes_! Get her out… I run back to the room, finding her curled into a ball, her eyes remain tightly closed and her palms cover her ears. I curse under my breath and approach her, ever so delicately, moving as slowly as I can to not startle her. I fail. She’s so scared that her shoulders jerk away the moment my fingertips brush over her knuckles. 

‘It's me,’ I reassure her in a gruff voice. She removes her hands from her ears and looks at me, the immense fear in her gaze sending new waves of nausea throughout my body. I swallow and she keeps looking at me, unfazed, absent. Blank. When I’m about to scoop her up, she squirms, uncomfortable. Damn. I only saw the superficial injuries, but I know nothing about the internal damage. I take a step back, deliberating the best way to lift her without hurting her. Time is running out and I move like the mere seconds are slipping through my fingers: I maneuver to envelop Robin in the sheets, always careful not to touch her much, and head downstairs, looking for a back door. After making sure the coast is clear, I advance across the back yards, rushing out of the neighborhood. Thank God the sheets are a dark shade of gray, otherwise it would be harder to sneak out. Despite the night serving as camouflage, the neighbors could spot us and wonder what’s going on. We don’t need any unwanted attention. Once I get a glimpse of the Jeep, I stop abruptly on my tracks: what am I going to do with Andrei? I cannot leave him to be found like that. Besides, it’ll leave room for speculation. The police will start an investigation about the incident, they would look for clues and interrogate people. A thought crosses my mind, but I shake my head, rejecting the idea immediately. Robin squirms again in my arms. _Robin_. I have to do it because it would compromise her as well. I open the car’s door and get her inside, making sure she’ll be alright by herself before leaving to clean the mess we’ve left behind us. It’s faster and I’m efficient because I know exactly what to do. There’s no running away from that: he has to disappear. Damn. Fuck. Shit. 

Once I’m back inside the house, I run upstairs to carry Andrei’s body to the kitchen, where I’ll plant one of the stopwatch bombs in the oven to associate the murder with an electrical failure. They’ll know it wasn’t an accident, but they won’t have more than technician’s diagnostic to prove it. They don’t have a face, or hints; I’ll leave them empty handed. I avoid looking at the corpse while I carry it, also trying not to think of it as a “him,” because the remorse is already haunting my mind, and if I let it drill its way into my head, I’m never going to leave. And Robin… But when I lift it, something shiny falls from one of his hands: Robin’s necklace. I didn’t notice him tearing it away from my neck while I was choking him. It has blood all over, and the contrast of the crimson color in the pure, transparent surface hurts my eyes. _Look away_. I pick it up and look at it, feeling the familiar reassurance clearing my sight. _Get it done_. I put it on again, wearing it like an amulet that provides me the courage to do wrong on her behalf.

Everything is settled. I don’t look back. It stays behind and I walk away from the house. Robin is safe and sound in the back seat of the Jeep, half awake and far from the materiality of this world. I’m not sure if I myself am closer to it than her. It doesn’t really matter because I found her, she’s with me and we’re going home.

‘I'm gonna take you home,’ I whisper to her although she doesn’t answer. I worry she doesn’t even listen. I turn on the engine, speeding up in less than an instant. ‘We're going home,’ I say, and the radiance of the explosion lights up my features through the rearview mirror.

The ride can only be described as agonizing. Robin’s breathing is calm, too calm for the sake of my nerves, and I can’t seem to drive fast enough. I check on her constantly and consider stopping by a hospital, but I dismiss that idea because it would compromise her even more. Instead, I contemplate the best option to get rid of the Jeep as soon as we arrive. I’ve had it for nearly eight hours, far longer than I should have, yet it wouldn’t be wise to switch vehicles with Robin in such delicate state, so I’ll have to stick with it until we reach the city. Which we do in one hour, more time than I’d like, less than I expected. I park the Jeep and turn off the engine, suddenly aware of my next tricky tactic. How am I going to take Robin all the way up to our flats without anyone popping out with questions? It’s not a problem of physical endurance, but one of intellect and strategy. If someone merely looks at us, we’re screwed. I pray the hour helps and everyone is sleeping. 

I _run_ upstairs. Climbing two or four steps per stride, clutching Robin’s fragile body firmly against my chest to prevent any harsh movement that could hurt her, or even bother her in the slightest. She’s still blank, absent, empty, but her nerves and muscles respond for her, indicating to me if I do something she’s uncomfortable with. The first three floors melt under my feet, the friction of my shoes on the ground leave a burning sensation in my calves, the fourth and the fifth are crashed down while my ribs perforate my lungs, sixth and seventh are not even registered by my fading system, and in the end, both Robin and I morph into a mass of dried blood, sweat and tears. Fatigued, I look for her keys, struggling to open my backpack and take out the keys that I hope are inside her purse. Damn it, it’s like opening a matryoshka. When I finally manage to unlock the door, out of breath, I guide us to the bed to settle Robin on the mattress: huge mistake. 

Somewhere in her mind, she associates the pattern of my movements with Andrei’s, and laying her on the bed results in her kicking and punching at the air, tangling herself in the sheets, letting out earsplitting shouts as fiery tears stream down her cheeks. Panic clouds my vision, making me drop her almost aggressively and earning a sharp blow to my jaw. Holding her limbs down would only worsen the situation, she could take it as a forceful restraint, setting her mind into a defensive mode, and she could really hurt herself. I opt for cupping her face, molding my palm around the bruised angles of her jawbone and forcing her to look straight at me before speaking in the gentlest tone I can muster:

‘Stop, Robin, it’s me. It’s Bucky.’ She’s fighting back invisible violence and I’m fighting back a sob. ‘It’s me.’ My throat is strangled by agony. Robin’s gasping, beyond terrified. We are paralyzed by horror, and I slowly remove my hand from her face, making sure she sees my every movement. It’s some kind of déjà vu from the times she’d do the same to me to reassure me of my surroundings, communicating without words that she meant no harm. I step back to give her space and she shifts until she partially relaxes. I study her, her injuries becoming more evident: fracture in the shin-bone area, a possible concussion on the right side of the head, and... I can’t bring myself to event think about it. She needs medical attention right away, and although I’m not the best qualified to do it, there’s something I can do. ‘I– I have to clean your wounds.’ She doesn’t give signals she’s listening to what I’m saying and my worry blasts off to colossal levels. I’m losing her. Just when I’m about to give in to panic, she gives me a tiny nod. I hurry to gather cotton balls and a small bowl with water, clean clothes, scissors and another anesthetic injection. 

Robin watches me with alarmed eyes when I kneel next to her, cotton and bowl in hand.

‘Can– can I…?’ It’s important that I ask permission. Up until now, I’ve been touching her because I had to, but given that we’re no longer in those circumstances, she has to agree with everything I do. She consents and ever so tenderly, I start to wipe the blood from her face and neck, then her arms and hands, discarding the dirty pieces of cotton to keep the water clean. Before I go any further, I inject more anesthetic in her leg and she flinches when she feels the brief sting of the needle. I’m even more meticulous as I clean her legs, avoiding moving them apart because I don’t know how badly it hurts there. I look up to her, clearing my throat before speaking. ‘Robin, I– I have to cut your dress, but I’ll put on a shirt before I remove it. Is that okay?’ I explain, because she’ll probably freak out at the sight of the scissors. She nods, mistrustful, and I swallow before I cut the straps of the dress. It’s torture. Robin cringes, grimaces, and tenses. It’s unbearable. My flesh hand is shaking while I move to cut the neckline, obliging me to keep going with the metal one. I slide the oversized shirt over her head, struggling to keep her steady as I put it on, and I tug at the hem of the dress to drag it down. Finally, fucking finally, I finish and we release a sigh of relief.

The room is dead quiet as I clean myself up. I give Robin a break from any kind of contact and busy myself thinking about the situation and how I am going to approach it. I sit on one of the kitchen chairs and run my hands through my hair, sinking into chaos. I have to evaluate every single aspect of my next decision, the pros and cons, but above all, what decision won’t harm Robin the most. I recreate two potential scenarios: hospital or private doctor. If I take her to the hospital, people will ask questions she probably won’t be able to answer. Sure, she can lie and make up a believable story that no one would doubt, but if Costin called the police and they’re looking for Robin, they’ll interrogate her and if she as much as skips one detail, that’s it. Besides, she’s in no condition to be convincing. On the other hand, if I find a private doctor who operates under the radar, she’ll have the attention she needs right now and we can think of a story to tell later. Yes, that’s better. _Better or easier?_ Shut up.

A muffled whimper catches my attention, prompting me to jump from the chair, ready to attack, only to realize that it was Robin squirming in her sleep. I frown in concern at her uneasiness. How am I supposed to look for a doctor if she requires fulltime observation? Maybe if I sweetly explain to her why I must go out, she’ll remain calm. _Are you leaving?_ It shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours. _A couple of weeks_. And I’ll be back before she knows. _I’ll come back, I always do_. Those words hurt in my memory, because although I came back, I took too long and this happened. Clutching my fists, I begin to prepare a cup of tea for her, grabbing the bottle of sleeping pills from her nightstand and throwing my indecision out of the window.

Hot and sugar-free, the bitter taste of the medicine disguised by a raspberry flavor, the cup rests in my hands as I kneel in front of her. 

‘I made you some tea,’ I whisper and her eyes flutter open with great effort from her swollen eyelids. When she looks at the cup, she shakes her head, rejecting my offer. ‘Please, little bird. For me,’ I plead. The physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion decelerate the speed of her reactions, thoughts, and replies, and it takes her a minute to nod her head. Thanks fucking God. She takes diminutive sips, still too weak to drink by herself, and I wait patiently for her to finish the tea. Once the cup is empty, she lays her head down on the pillow and I brush her cheek, muttering to her. ‘Get some sleep, I'll be right here when you wake up,’ and I hurry outside to find the damn doctor.

It’s not that hard to do because I know where to go. The owner and bartender of the bar I used to visit every now and then the first couple of months I spent in Bucharest was in deep shit. I observed him and the environment for hours, and I was sure there was something wrong with that place. The customers were often taken out by the police or they’d meet at some sort of backstage room, followed by men in suits and their armed bodyguards, carrying several briefcases. I’d be stupid if I didn’t put two and two together, and I hope he knows a doctor in the business. I climb on the Jeep and head downtown, getting there in less than ten minutes, afraid of the time between Robin and me. 

The owner stands at his usual spot behind the bar, immediately noticing my presence as I step inside his locale. Despite the cap I’m still wearing, and the neck of my jacket covering the bottom half of my face, he recognizes me, at least the part that he doesn’t dare to test. I give him a suggestive glance, gesturing him to follow me out. He nods and walks in my direction. I make sure no one is around and I enter an empty, dark alley. He catches up and we casually lean on the wall, shoulder to shoulder. Cut the crap and get it over with.

' _I need a doctor_ ,' I say in a low, intimidating tone, and hand him a fat envelope. He hesitates for a brief second, but takes it nonetheless, aware that I’m not giving him a choice but to accept. ‘ _A private doctor_.’ The clarification is not necessary, yet it points out the urgency. 

He doesn’t respond for a moment, taking out a card from his wallet. ' _Here is his name and address_.' 

I take the card and turn to face him, glaring at him in a quiet warning. I actually see him gulp. 

' _Tell him gray-worm sent you_ ,' He turns on his heels without another word and I rush to get rid of the Jeep. 

Doctor Emil Sala. 

His address is near the suburbs, actually four blocks from our building. I question my chances again, because I don’t trust anyone, and I can’t be that lucky. But Robin deserves my blind trust, and there’s no room for doubts, not when she’s waiting for me, vulnerable and wounded. I steal a bike and find myself knocking at the door of a small house that is neither extravagant nor decadent. It’s simple and quiet, except for the classical music coming from the inside. I stand where the light of the lamppost covers most of my figure, darkening even more my features. I hear footsteps approaching the entry; my muscles twitch in anticipation and my lungs exhale pure anxiety. The door opens to reveal a short, bald man with glasses covering green eyes and furrowed brows. We stare at each other for a moment, and then he straightens his rusty skeleton of a back and smiles politely at me. He seems unfazed by my sudden visit at this late hour, almost like he’s used to it.

' _Good night, sir_ ,' he greets me, his voice soft.

‘ _Good night_ ,’ I reply, even though I don’t return the smile, my greeting is respectful. ‘ _Doctor Sala?_ ’ I inquire with a frown, and he nods, again, in a familiar calm. ' _Gray-worm sent me_.’ I try to be civilized enough to exchange greetings, but the clock is practically ticking in my ear. His smile falters for an instant, a flashing quiver at the corner that would have been invisible to anyone, but my enhanced senses get a glimpse of it. He knows the man and he doesn’t like to hear it.

‘ _Come in, please_ ,’ he steps aside, inviting me to follow him inside. He guides me to the living room and I scan the place to discard any threat. It remains as simple as the exterior. He sits down on a couch and gestures me to imitate him. ‘ _What can I do for you, sir?_ ’ Cut the crap and get it over with.

‘ _I need a medical evaluation for a friend_.’ The word “friend” sounds forceful, but “girlfriend” gives away more information than I’m willing to share. ‘ _Unofficial_ ,’ I specify, “unofficial” as unnecessarily as “private.” He leans forwards, like I earned his whole attention just like that. 

‘ _Is the patient able to move?_ ’ 

I shake my head. 

‘ _Very well_.’ He stands up. ‘ _In order to proceed with the evaluation and gather the proper equipment, I must know the basics_.' I stand up as well, but he waits for my answer before, I imagine, we leave the room.

‘ _Besides the broken leg, she has a concussion on the right side of her head_ ,’ I say.

He nods and starts walking towards the hallway. I follow him in silence and we reach a door that leads to some kind of domestic consulting room. He doesn’t seem bothered by my close pursuit, or my prying as he takes instruments and bottles from the shelves and a small fridge. The room is annoyingly clean and I perceive a funny smell in the air, a mix of chlorine and medicine. Disgusting. The doctor takes out a briefcase and selects several pieces of paper, maybe forms and prescriptions. 

‘ _And she was sexually assaulted_ ,’ I blurt out, making him stop his motions. He looks up at me, an empathetic expression softening his face. He opens a drawer from his desk and takes out another bunch of papers along with rectangular, small boxes.

‘ _We should get going, sir_.’ It’s my time to nod and his to follow me. He puts on a coat and we head out of the house. 

Given that we live considerably close, and I got rid of the bike already, we agree to walk towards the building. The night is not that cold, but the streets are deserted and oddly quiet. I try to adjust to his pace, but I’m uneasy and exasperated, so I have to constantly remind myself to slow down. He’s not forcing any conversation; we walk side by side in an established silence, his company almost comfortable. It is comforting that he’s willing to help me, not simply out of kindness, of course, but knowing that there’s someone capable of giving Robin the attention she needs, lifts a weight off my shoulders. I have less to worry about, and I pray after this, I can focus on her emotional recovery. As the building comes into sight, my feet move faster, daring him to keep up, although I end up adjusting my pace again because there’s no way he can run upstairs. He’s not that old, but I won’t risk him having a heart attack right here. Once we reach our floor, he’s coughing, fighting to catch his breath, I give him a minute to compose himself before I open the door of the apartment. We step in, two pairs of eyes searching for something. _Someone_. Her. Lying where I left her. 

I let out a relieved sigh and the doctor approaches the mattress, kneeling next to her, immediately inspecting her injuries. He doesn’t touch her, a smart move because I’ll undoubtedly rip off his entire arm if he as much as tries. I step closer, standing right behind him, invading his personal space to make sure he knows he has to be careful about this. Which is stupid because I solicited his service in the first place. 

‘ _Did she shower?_ ’ he asks, looking at me over his shoulder and putting on latex gloves. 

I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest. If he wants to know why she is unconscious, he doesn’t express it. 

‘ _Very well, I'll proceed with her leg and head_ ,’ he informs me, and I nod, granting the permission. I watch him like a hawk while he works, taking out his equipment from the briefcase as he uses more and more instruments. I suddenly feel guilty for doing this to her without her explicit consent. _Focus, Barnes_. It has to be done. He makes quick notes, moving her arms and head to the sides, up and down, discarding more potential injuries, and I study him, making sure he’s not overstepping my trust. When he continues with her broken leg, I stiffen, nervous. After he realizes that the area has been sedated in anticipation, he takes out a portable x-ray screen, making me raise my eyebrows in honest amazement, and asks me if I can help him set her bones back in place. Oh, fuck. I hold the x-ray screen, sweating cold, and he does the rest. It’s exhausting for everybody: the doctor and me. Even Robin, who frowns in her sleep. I don’t know how long it takes, probably hours, shifting, tugging and grunting all along, but when he lets out a triumphant sigh, I’m able to breathe again. He then prepares some kind of powder mixture and I don’t exactly understand what he’s doing until he’s almost finished. Layers of fabric and cast, immobilizing from her knee to her toes, secure Robin’s leg. Mouth shut, he simply gets to work. I notice the sweat in his forehead, the fatigue mirroring when his gaze meets mine. 

‘ _Now, could you hold her legs open, please?_ ’ His question takes me aback, and I don’t foresee the low growl erupting from my chest. I lean protectively over Robin, shielding her from him. ‘ _Sir, it’s necessary that I examine her genitalia to search for an infection or internal injury. And I have to rule out a current pregnancy_.’ 

I feel a wave of nausea hit my stomach. Pregnancy? Jesus fucking Christ. No. Robin can’t get pregnant, she… It can’t happen to her this way. It takes me solid five minutes to process what he’s saying, and tears loom from the back of my eyes. _Focus, Barnes_. It’s getting hard to breathe again. Somehow, I manage to give him a tiny nod and I do as he asked. I’m nauseous, absentminded, agitated. The doctor moves her legs apart and I hold her knees, the bile swelling in my stomach burning in my throat. He doesn’t take long, aware of my growing dread. A few minutes pass, he stands up and I yank my hands off her skin, standing up as well. 

‘ _I'll bring the results in a few hours and the medication she requires_.’ The doctor removes his gloves and starts to gather his equipment. I don’t dare to look at him. The emotions are overwhelming, disabling my senses. I feel a feather-like brush on my shoulder; I think the doctor is handing me those small rectangular boxes he brought from his house. I’m so dazed that I didn’t even feel him close. ‘I gave her these. They are contraceptives and some protocol vaccines.’ I want to ask him more, but there’s a sound barrier in my ears and his final explanation gets lost in the space of the room. I’m numb.

The shock doesn’t fade for a couple of hours. The doctor must have left already. I sit on the couch and wait for Robin to wake up. A part of my mind is surprised, and worried, that she didn’t wake up during the examination, because the pain must have been excruciating and she didn’t even whine in her sleep. I think I gave her a high dose of those pills. Damn, Barnes. You’re going to kill her. _You did_. Shut up. _Once_. Shut up, mind. _You killed a man too_. Shut up, thoughts. _You’re a killer_. Shut up, world. I need peace and quiet everywhere because I can’t help Robin if I’m not strong enough to keep my sanity inside my brain. Shut up, everyone. Leave me alone, alone with her and our tears. My frantic heartbeat complements her breathing and the clock finally stops ticking. We’re here, she’s alive, and I’m wrecked. Isn’t she as well? What can I expect when she opens her eyes? Shouts, blood and crying is all I envision, never-ending suffering, hers for what she endured, and mine for hers. Goddamn cycle that we can’t break. Is it always going to be like this? I understand my misery because I deserve it, but Robin? My precious, little bird. So good, so blue and pure. Why did this happen to her? Her of all people. 

_Robin_.

The echo of her screams haunts me. My name shaping her hopelessness through the cellphone rings in my skull and I bury my face in my hands, just as hopeless. And then the memory of Andrei’s strangled yelps knock down my last defenses, making me storm out of the room to the balcony. His imaginary blood makes my hands sticky and the crack of his neck rumbles like thunder. I killed him. There’s no justifying it this time. I did it on my own, without orders, without control. It felt natural. Jesus, killing feels natural. Am I really that screwed? _Fuck_. Nothing has changed, I am what they made me, I am the monster, their asset. I still belong to them. I close my eyes, breathing in deeply, allowing the shame to invade every inch of my being. The dormant city is oblivious to my inner battle, it’s like the world refuses to halt for us to catch up with its realism. I wish I could witness the breaking down of the night and welcome the sunlight as it creeps up the buildings. I crave the obliviousness.

 _Bucky?_

My eyes snap open; she’s awake. 

I run back inside, slowing down as I near Robin’s figure. I don’t want to startle her again. The apprehension tugs at the fibers of my muscles and I’m kneeling next to her within seconds.

‘What– who?’ She’s looking at the cast restraining her leg with both confusion and fright. 

‘I couldn't take you to the hospital,’ I explain. I sound strangely confident. ‘But you'll be alright, the doctor said–.’ 

‘Doctor? Why– what– what did he do to me?’ She tries to sit up by herself, but grimaces and falls back, her hand immediately traveling down… _there_. I gulp and she looks at me. ‘Why does it hurt?’ My heart shatters in that moment. She didn’t know? Did he… Did he do it while she was out? Didn’t she even have the chance to defend herself? Any merciful thought I had is gone, yet I don’t have the courage to explain to her what happened, that’s why I curse the words I blurt out.

‘I had to make sure you had no infections, and if you're pregnant–.’

‘Pregnant?’ _Shit_. Her shoulders start to shake and her breathing turns into panting. ‘What do you mean? What–?’ She’s unable to synchronize her thoughts with her lips, getting lost in her own blackouts. But then, it hits her, and she lets out a shocked gasp, muffling a horrified sob. No torture compares to the crushing sickness twisting my gut when she looks at me, plain realization quivering in the brown of her eyes. ‘Did he–?’ My silence is the answer. 

There’s nothing I can do to hold her tears. They run freely down her cheeks, every one of them a knife sinking into my flesh. She shakes her head, curling into a ball, refusing to believe the very reality of her present. She braces herself and something stunts the instinct to wrap my arms around her. I can’t comfort her because I lost that privilege the day I left, because it’s my fault. That something is guilt, and I can’t shake it off. 

‘Robin,’ I whisper, but her crying doesn’t let her hear me. ‘You need to rest. You’ll be–.’ Is she going to be okay? I don’t dare to lie to her, to say fake promises; instead, I let her cry out her pain. The least I can do is to be with her, just be. Her weeping dies slowly, weaken by tiredness. 

‘Try to get some rest,’ I advise and she shakes her head, sniffing. I purse my lips, thinking: how will I convince her to sleep a little more? Although I’m not proud of my decision, I prepare more tea with the sleeping pills. I’m nowhere near pleased with the idea of sedating her, but it’s the only thing that has worked. 

‘Here, drink this. Please.’ 

She takes a while to turn around and sip at the tea with my help. She falls asleep not long after.

It’s morning before I realize how many hours have passed. I watch, wide-awake, as the light pours from the gap between the curtains. My mind is racing through the events of the last ten hours as my body fails to accept any rest. So many hours shorten in despair and adrenaline, but their weight keeps pushing me down to drown in them all. I stand up to drink a glass of water, the soreness of my throat became unbearable and it’s begging to be soothed. I’m not hungry, I’m tired but not drowsy, and my limbs begin to resent the static position I adopted in the couch. It’s impossible to relax or breathe, my system rejecting what should be normal. I let out a dark chuckle. Normal. What the fuck does that even mean? I hear a knock at the door; the doctor is back. I actually feel some relief. I look at Robin, whose chest raises and falls with each intake and exhale of breath. Glass in hand, I drag my feet towards the door, opening it to face a very tired Emil Sala. The poor man didn’t get more rest than I did.

‘ _Good morning, sir_ ,’ he greets me, ever polite. 

‘ _Good morning_.’ I step aside to let him in, nodding at the kitchen to talk without disturbing Robin. We sit at opposite sides of the table and he clears his throat before speaking. 

‘ _The pregnancy test was negative, there is no sign of infection, but she has several injuries due to the aggressive–_ ,’ 

A loud crack cuts him off. I stare at the glass in my hands and I see him gulp. Damn, Barnes. Hold your shit together. 

‘ _Her broken leg will heal within six or seven weeks. Here's the medication and the instructions for the whole treatment_.’ I take the medicine, reading the names of the boxes and bottles to classify them later. ‘ _I’ll make another general evaluation next week_ ,’ I nod, standing up to get his payment from my backpack. This man probably saved Robin’s life, he did what I couldn’t, and there’s no money enough to reward that. I hand him a similar envelope I gave the bartender. ‘ _Thank you very much, sir_ ,’ he says. I can hear the honest gratitude in his soft tone. And that’s it, for now. We stand up, shake hands and exchange farewells like two old pals. Maybe I trust him in a way, at least enough to let him do his job and take care of Robin’s health. Before I close the door, he turns around, hesitant of his next comment. ‘ _Sir? May I suggest some psychological intervention as well? This kind of incidents leave more than physical wounds_.’ His advice leaves me speechless. Psychological intervention? As in therapy? Where can I seek for that kind of help? My bewilderment makes him smile kindly. ‘ _Have a good day_.’ The silence in the room is back, but is so strident, that it hurts to even listen.

Still edgy, I busy myself reading the prescriptions the doctor left for me and organize the medicines to keep track of the treatment correctly. I wander in the kitchen, sniffing in the fridge to look for a promising meal, deciding to prepare sandwiches for Robin when she wakes up. She shouldn’t wake up until afternoon, so in the mean time, considering her reduced mobility, I devise a mechanism for her shower. She can’t get the cast wet, according to the doctor’s instructions, so an improvised tub would be too much of a struggle. If I put a plastic chair in the shower cabinet and install a hand shower, maybe it’d be easier for her to take a bath on her own. She’ll get privacy and the self-sufficiency she’ll ask for, and I won’t have to worry about her slipping. Yeah, that’s the best option. 

It’s past midday now. I’m about to take out the ham and cheese from the fridge, when a thought crosses my mind abruptly; Robin’s cellphone is in my backpack. I frown at the unexpected reminder, walking over the couch to check on it, and for some reason, I think it’s a great idea to turn it back on. There are 154 unread messages from Costin and another 20 from Mr. Tanase, plus the missed calls from both of them. They’ve been trying to reach to her, and they got no response. They must be sick worried after what happened to Liana. But, should I contact them and make up a believable explanation and tell Robin about it? Or do I keep ignoring their messages and calls? If they assume Robin’s missing as well, it doesn’t matter how much I want to keep her out of it, she’s the one who will have to answer to them in the end. I unlock the device and tap at the green square to call back Costin. Great idea to act before thinking. What am I going to tell him? I haven’t made out anything, I have no story or explanation, first, to why Robin practically disappeared, and second, why do I have her phone. Who am I for that matter? I can’t tell him I’m her boyfriend because I don’t know if she wants me to, or if she has already told them. A friend? Her neighbor? You’re brilliant, Barnes. Really. I regret dialing his number a little too late; Costin picks up after two rings, and there’s no backing down. 

‘ _Robin? Are you okay? Where have you been?!_ ’ He sounds breathless, utterly distressed. I clear my throat, praying I get through this without messing things up.

‘ _Costin, this is Robin's friend, James_.’ I’ll try to be as vague as possible about my identity, for her sake and mine, and I use a neutral tone because, in all honesty, I don’t know the man.

‘ _I'm sorry, I–_ ’ he pauses, sighing. ‘May I talk to her?’ I look over at Robin, dismissing the mere suggestion of waking her up just to talk to him.

‘ _She had an accident, but she's alright!_ ’ Now that was smooth, you imbecile. I close my eyes. Think, Barnes. What can you say that is not too elaborated or stupid? It has to be something that he won’t have second thoughts about. I take a deep breath. ‘ _She– she came to visit me at Salonta and was on her way to Bucharest when she… fell off a staircase_ ,’ I rant. That sounds like Robin, right? Yes, it’s simple and a situation that can happen to anyone. Besides, she has fallen off a staircase before. More confident, I continue with my made-up story. ‘ _I took her to the hospital, that's why she wasn't answering_.’ There’s the reasoning. He just has to buy it now. 

‘ _Oh, good God_.’ I picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, afflicted. 

‘ _She’s resting, but she’s fine_ ,’ I promise, trying to ease his palpable overwhelmed state. ‘ _She told me about Liana_.’ My tone changes drastically at the mention of Liana, it’s almost caressing, and cautious. ‘ _Is she alright?_ ’ I genuinely hope she is. The image of her damaged body lying in the hospital bed flashes in my memory. What Andrei did to her, not only last night, but for what he did to her over and over, spreads a wave of revulsion mixed with sadness throughout my chest. 

‘ _Liana–_ ,’ Costin falters, not out of doubt. It’s like he’s keeping himself from saying whatever he’s about to say. ‘ _Liana passed away this morning_.’

‘ _What?_ ’ My tone rises, a tight knot forming in my chest. _What?_ I repeat in my head. No. I refuse to believe Costin. It can’t be. No. Liana can’t be dead. That can’t be possible. ‘ _But she–_ ,’ she was well attended and stable when I saw her. She looked weak, for obvious reasons, but she seemed to be promising recovery. ‘ _How?_ ’ I inquire, covering my face with my free palm. 

‘ _Sudden cardiac arrest._ ’ Costin’s voice is filled with anguish. ‘ _They stabilized her after the attack, she was actually getting better, I don't understand why–_ ’ A sob cuts him off. I never stopped to think that I’m not the only one affected by Robin’s situation. These people are part of her life; they care about her and vice versa, so her mysterious and alarming absence was reason enough to drive them crazy. ‘ _Robin was the one who asked me to call the police, but then she didn’t pick up the phone and she wouldn’t show up at the hospital, so we were all really worried about her_.’ His accusing tone is not on purpose. The tiredness, the uncertainty and concern have taken their toll on him. 

‘ _I'm very sorry I didn't check on her cellphone sooner_.’ My apology is authentic.

‘ _I didn’t want her to know over the phone, but Liana's funeral is tomorrow_ ,’ he informs. I sit on the couch, resting my elbows on my knees. ‘ _Would you tell her?_ ’ Costin pleads. My gaze travels to Robin’s calm form and I wonder if I’m capable of that. How can I further break a broken person? Costin sighs yet again. ‘ _I’m sorry, I know it’s not on you._ ’ But if he knew. 

‘ _I’ll tell her, and I'll take her back to Bucharest as soon as possible._ ’ The lie allows me to excuse any delay. 

‘ _Thank you very much, James,_ ’ he says and hangs up.

I put down the cellphone, placing it on the arm of the couch. Another question surges from the depths of silence: _how_ am I going to tell Robin that Liana died? From all the secrets I keep, even her family’s connection to Hydra, from all the nightmares and memories she will never hear coming out of my mouth, none of them are this wrecking. Somehow, I feel like Robin knowing the truth about her family wouldn’t be that terrible because her idea of them is already distorted. On the other hand, anything that has to do with my past doesn’t affect her directly and she can handle the messed-up reality of it. She has lost so many loved ones, and she’s always so afraid of losing me, that if I tell her that someone else has left her life, I worry she’ll fall from the thin line between desolation and hope. I’m not enough. It’s hard to admit it because I want to be enough for her. I want to promise her that she will always have me, and fulfill that promise, I want to be that solid ground, that safe place, but it doesn’t work like that. In movies and books, two persons who fall in love become each other’s whole world, friends and family staying in the background, but Robin has Mr. Tanase, Costin, she has her movies and her music. She had the café before I came into the picture, and in my absence, she made a friend who reconnected her to the present. It’s not about what Liana represented as the bridge to normalcy, it’s about something as simple as love. Liana was her friend, and now she’s gone. _How_ am I going to tell Robin that? 

By afternoon, I hear Robin squirming. Her meal is ready, served on a plate. The doctor suggested light food and a lot of liquids, so I pour orange juice into a large glass for her to take her medicine and I walk over the mattress. 

‘Hey.’ She rubs her eyes, sleepy still, and turns to me. ‘You gotta eat, little bird,’ I smile at her. She’s indifferent. Her expression is neutral and her movements are programmed as she struggles up to a sitting position, grimacing. 

She doesn’t refuse to eat. In fact, she bites at the sandwich rather willingly. God knows when the last time she ate was, and the necessities of her body wouldn’t let her go further without nourishment. I watch her in silence, holding the glass of juice while she finishes the sandwich, making sure there’s no sign of struggle when she swallows. I hate to study her like this, like she’s an object that could show a deficiency. Robin isn’t a machine that has to fully function; she’s a human. I remind myself that. In my heart, I crave her eyes on mine, her touch and her voice, I want to reach out and caress her cheek, I miss her warmth, I want to comfort her, but I don’t dare move a finger. It’s like she’s forbidden. She chews sluggishly, her mind far away and her gaze blank. Is she thinking about it? She’s calm; maybe the tiredness is overpowering the panic, or maybe the effect of the sleeping pills hasn’t worn out yet. Is she thinking at all? Robin sets the plate down on her lap and I hand her the glass, gesturing at the numerous pills she has to take. One by one, one sip at a time, the pills get in her system. Robin flinches when my fingers graze over her hands as I try to take the glass and the plate to put the aside, making me back away. I should let her go back to sleep. 

‘How did you find me?’ It’s barely a whisper. Her voice is so hoarse that she doesn’t sound like herself anymore. She clears her throat, grimacing, and I offer her more juice, which she takes, avoiding any kind of contact.

‘I went to Liana’s house,’ I start and she takes a sip. She doesn’t ask about the source of my information, however, I don’t think she remembers that I saved the address on my iPod. ‘I saw the ambulances of the Metropolitan Hospital, so I went to see her there.’ Robin frowns and sets down the glass, turning to look at me in what feels like ages. Those big, brown eyes, beautiful despite the pain in them, ignite a spark of life in my veins.

‘You went to see her? What– did you– did you talk to her?’, I shake my head.

‘No, she only managed to tell me where Andrei could've taken you. Then I went on looking for you.’ The omissions of the statement don’t bother her. She accepts my explanation like the food I gave her, in the same automatic way. 

‘How was she?’ _No_. Not now, please. I divert my eyes. She doesn’t have to know now and I’m not ready to tell her. I haven’t figured it out and I keep asking myself how. I should lie, make up a story and prevent the suffering I should turn around and ignore her. It would be merciful. It would be easy; it’s not. ‘Bucky, how was she?’ She won’t let me do it. I open my eyes, I look at her and beg her to forgive me for speaking the next words.

‘She’s dead.’

Silence.

Her breath hitches in her throat and the world collapses upon us.

‘No...’ Robin covers her mouth to muffle a sob. ‘Oh God, no.’ Renewed tears flood her eyes and then she breaks. She howls, like her inner wounds hurt more than the external ones, she pants as if the air repudiates her lungs, and she tries to hold together the fragments of her heart and soul that just burst. ‘This can’t be happening. Not again, not her,’ Robin rocks back and forth in denial, sobbing hysterically. She starts to scratch her arms, but I can’t find the strength to stop her. ‘Why? Why her?!’ she demands to the heavens. I’m petrified in my place, unable to answer, to move. I’m useless. ‘They're all dead,’ she gasps out, fisting her hair. ‘THEY'RE ALL DEAD!’ And then she throws the dishes across the room.

‘Robin,’ my body reacts instinctively at the swift motion and I adopt a defensive position. ‘Calm down.’ 

Wrong words.

‘How can you say that?! My friend is _dead_!’ she yells. Her cheeks are burning with a bright shade of red and the vein of her forehead pops out in rage.

‘You're gonna hurt yourself,’ I try to reach out to her, but she slaps my hands away. ‘Robin, please.’ My eyes begin to wet. ‘We can seek help,’ I blurt out. ‘Professional help.’ Wrong words. Again.

‘And then what? Will it disappear? Will it stop hurting?!’ Robin’s shouts roar between the walls of the apartment. Suddenly, her whole demeanor turns brutally lethal. She could rip me to shreds herself at any given moment. ‘ _Nothing changed_! I tried but this– the world didn't change! It– it doesn't stop, Bucky. Don't you get it?! I'm tired! I have nothing more to give. They've taken everything from me!’ I can practically feel the stinging of her throat now. 

‘Robin, I need you to calm down.’ My last mistake is to wrap my arms around her to contain her wrath. 

‘No, no! I can't, I can't, I can't!’ She kicks and throws punches until I let her go and she falls off the bed, landing at my feet. ‘Just make it stop,’ she begs. ‘Please, make it stop.’ And the tears run down my face.

I look down at the ruins of the girl I love, I let her drown in her misery and feel the cold of their death. She curls on the floor, her furious shudders invigorated by the violence of her sobs. What are you going to do, Bucky? Say something. _Do_ something. Make it stop. Are you going to make it stop? How? You don’t know this pain. You can’t imagine this pain. But don’t give up on her. Don’t leave her. I lean down to lift her, and she’s so spent that she doesn’t even fight back. She’s limp in my arms. I place her on the mattress and crawl behind her, curling my body around her, molding into its cracks just perfectly. I cry with her, for her, but there’s nothing left of Robin to cry for. 

‘Would you forgive me,’ I whimper. ‘Would you– would you, please?’ I cry harder, burying my nose into her flesh and hair. ‘I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.’ 

‘You can’t always fix everything with an apology,’ her voice comes from another world.

‘Tell me what to do,’ I implore. ‘I'll do anything you ask me.’

‘What can you do?’ She asks. 

I close my eyes, biting down my tongue so hard that the taste of my blood mixes with the salty taste of the tears. 

‘I've got nothing left,' she says, flatly.

I shake my head, my arms tightening around her.‘You have me,’ I say, the words come out liquid weak when they must be solid true.

‘Do I?’

_Does she?_

‘I'm not going anywhere.’

_Am I?_

‘Don’t say that,’ she commands. ‘It hurts,’ and she breaks. We break. ‘It hurts...’ 

It hurts for everything that is implied. 

Either taken away by the gun or by death, I’ll be gone too. 

I'm going to leave her.

Maybe I already did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLOOOOOO I'M BACK! I'm so happy to finally update this fic because this chapter in particular had me struggling while I was writing it. I suffered, really. But I found myself loving it because it leads to the final trial of Bucky and Robin's relationship. And I have to warn you, the next two chapters (thanks God already on the work) are pretty much heartbreaking and PURE ANGST. So, be ready.
> 
> I would really like to hear from you. On the last chapters I didn't saw many opinions and I'm starting to miss you. I know I've been awful with the updates but please, I beg you to understand that it takes me a lot to write every chapter because I want the story to be as detailed and interesting as I can make it. So, please, don't abandon me...
> 
> And well, you might have read it already, but I have now a beta reader, arizonapoppy, and SHE'S AWESOME. Shot-out to you, you wonderful being! :D


	23. Can you feel my heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone still read this?

_Little robin._

_Slap._

_Stop crying, little robin._

_Slap._

_I taste blood in my mouth. ‘Get up, Gabrielle.’ I lift my head, glancing at Irina’s direction before Liev slaps me across the face once more. ‘Get up.’ She commands and I stand up, closing my eyes tightly as I gather all the strength I have left to keep standing, just to fall on my knees again. I hear a huff. ‘It’s me or her,’ Liev warns. A defeated sob escapes my mouth. ‘Wrong choice,’ Irina strides towards me, grabbing my hair and yanking my head back, her nails digging into my scalp. ‘Stop crying and fight,’ her voice is sharper than the knife she’s pressing against my throat. I shake my head, whimpering loudly. ‘Stop crying!’_

_‘Stop crying, little robin.’_

_Andrei whispers from the front seat of his car. My whole body is aching, twisting relentlessly to break free from the ropes. ‘We’re almost there,’ he says. There. I blink to clear the tears from my eyes, but I see nothing. He opens the door and takes me out of the car. ‘We’re home,’ he utters and rubs his chin against my forehead._

_Home._

_Bucky._

_Andrei sets me down on a bed. I squirm and he removes the gag from my mouth. I taste blood. And when I’m about to scream for help, he slaps me across the face. Little robin. He reaches over the nightstand and takes out a roll of duct tape, cutting a large piece to place it over my lips. ‘This is our new home.’ I shake my head. ‘You belong to me,’ he grins and rips apart my dress from the cleavage to the hem, running his hands over the newly exposed skin. ‘You’re so beautiful.’ He unties my hands and legs, and I immediately attempt to run. He intercepts me halfway to the door and slams me against the nearest wall._

_‘You’re mine now,’ he licks my cheek. I can’t take it anymore. I throw punches and kicks at him, and one of my legs lands between his, making him groan and earning yet another slap. Get up and fight. I’m wriggling harder and it exasperates him. ‘You’re mine!’ He shouts and slams the right side of my head against the wall. The buzzing that follows makes me dizzy. The room spins around me, and my eyes fall shut. I never feel myself hit the ground, only a soft surface under my body. ‘We’re going to have some fun.’ And then, there’s just darkness and agony._

_Wake up, little robin._

_Something hurts from deep within._

_Wake up, little bird._

_Something burns._

_Wake up, Robin._

_Something dies._

_‘Wake up’_

_Bucky._

My eyes open and I let out a gasp as a wave of spasms tangles around my spine. Did I dream it? ‘It was a dream,’ Bucky assures. But it’s real. It happened somewhere long ago and not long ago somewhere. The memories splice. Heavy sobs force my lungs to work harder, they shrink and inflate quickly, and Bucky is suddenly holding the inhaler in front of me. Deep breaths breathe deeply: it was a dream. ‘It was a dream,’ he repeats, and I want to believe him. He’s patient and caring, rubbing my arms up and down to soothe the nightmare away. Does he know that it was real? ‘Go back to sleep.’ He doesn’t. ‘Sleep, Robin.’

_‘Rob, wait.’_

_Liana calls before I step into the kitchen, and I look at her from behind the counter. Costin left me in charge while he was off to visit his mom. She had a rough week and Mr. Tanase asked him to go see them, hoping that it could cheer her up, at least. Liana purses her lips, unsure of what’s she’s about to say. ‘I just… wanted to thank you for keeping me company yesterday.’ She asked me to spend the night at her house because her parents hadn’t been home for two weeks and she began to feel lonely. It was not a big deal; it was a normal friend’s thing. I’ve seen it in movies: sleepovers with eat ice cream and rom-coms, gossips and makeup. Do each other’s hair, karaoke, try clothes on and take millions of selfies. Girl stuff. I hesitated at first, because I thought about the things that could go wrong: Liana asking about what I’m not ready to share with her, or me freaking out about something so simple as talking. But she said, ‘We’re going to have so much fun, Rob. I promise.’ And we did._

For the first time in years, I felt what friendship was. Liana became the friend I didn’t knew I should have had and it made me realize how secluded I was, even before I met Bucky, before my family moved to Russia: in Boston, I had no kids to play with, only my brother. I never went to a public or private school, and the only outside contact I had was my Grams. My parents made it look normal, it felt normal. How do you realize something is wrong if there’s nothing to compare with? Perhaps, that’s the reason I am so guarded about everything, so afraid all the time. When I met Bucky, I broke something that tied me to the trauma of my family’s death, and whilst our relationship helped me live in the world again, Liana’s friendship grounded me to it. She was the person who showed me there was more out there, that my life with Bucky was just a part of my entire life. She was my friend, and now she’s gone and it’s my fault. 

The same way I couldn’t save my mother and father all those years ago, like I let my brother die alone, I couldn’t save her from Andrei. I let that man hurt her. Even when I saw the marks on her arms, the bruises on her face, I did nothing. Maybe I didn’t kill her, but she’s dead because of me. “ _You’re weak, Gabrielle_ ,” Irina said. “ _You can’t even fight back to protect yourself._ ” So how could I fight for Liana? How could I _not_?

I meet the warm light of sunrise as my eyes flutter open. I feel unnaturally drowsy, probably due to the medicine. It takes me a while to become aware of my surroundings, the effect of the painkillers hindering my senses. I slowly embrace the quietness of the room: it’s bit cold, a bit empty. The sound of streaming water coming from the distant background is almost familiar. Before my mind questions anything about it, a buzzing coming from behind startles me. My first impulse is to turn around, but I stop abruptly when I sense a restraint on the bottom-half of my body, followed by a sharp pain in my abdomen. I let out a puff, carefully shifting to my other side. I look down, alarmed, and I uncover myself, acknowledging the cast immobilizing my leg. Right, I broke my leg. _He_ broke my leg to make sure I didn’t escape. The memory of the pain is as vivid as the moment he hit me with that spanner, the gag on my mouth silencing a cutthroat scream. New tears cloud my vision, and the buzzing is what prevents them from falling. 

It’s my cellphone. 

I thought I had lost it along with my purse. I remember dropping the device at Liana’s house and Andrei taking the purse, but Bucky must have found them because the inhaler was inside it, and well, the cellphone is here. Costin’s name pops on the screen. Goodness gracious, what am I going to tell him? I practically disappeared after I called him. Does he know what happened to me? Does anybody? I could avoid the explanation, because I’m not in condition to formulate one, but then it would only increase his worry. I have to answer him or else he’ll think the worst, if he doesn’t already. I take a deep breath and tap the green button.

' _Robin, thanks heavens! Are you back in Bucharest?_ ’ His question confuses me. I’m not sure if he knows precisely what happened, but thinking about it, nobody really noticed my absence, except for him and Bucky, and Costin couldn’t figure it out. Maybe it’s better, safer, to just answer his questions instead of elaborate on them.

‘ _Yes_.’ 

‘ _How are you feeling?_ ’ It’s another confusing question because I don’t know if he’s referring to my multiple injuries or to Liana, or both.

‘ _Better_ ,’ I try to excuse the hesitation by clearing my throat, also aware of the hoarseness of my throat. ‘How– how are you?’ I choose to play dumb.

‘ _I’m getting ready_ ,’ his voice is filled with fatigue and sadness. I’m awake enough to understand that he means Liana’s funeral. A knot starts to form in my chest and I have to blink away the threatening urge to finally let my tears fall. ‘ _I guess James has already told you_ ,’ James? Does he mean…Bucky? Did he talk to Bucky? This newly revealed information leaves me shocked. It changes the dynamic of our conversation. If they talked, I’m sure Bucky made up a story to cover up the real events. The problem is I don’t what story that was, and if I say something that doesn’t match his version, the façade will fall. 

I shouldn’t have answered the call, but there’s no turning back now.

‘ _Yes, he did._ ’ I stick to replying specifically what’s he’s asking.

‘ _Are you coming?_ ’ He sounds doubtful, like he’s hoping I won’t. How could I not? Andrei took me away from Liana, he forced me to leave her once; I’m not abandoning her again.

‘ _Yes_.’ A whimper escapes my mouth.

‘ _Okay. I’ll text you the address_.’ I catch his voice breaking at the end before he hangs up. I let the cellphone slide through my fingers, the strength all but gone.

I cover my face with my hands as the tears begin to run down my cheeks. They burn my skin and my heart, and the ghost of Liana’s laugh, along with my sobbing, can be heard in the room. 

She’s dead; she’s gone. I refuse to assimilate it, to accept it, yet it becomes more real with every passing second. I shake my head, the pain sinking deeper into the chasm of my soul where those I’ve loved and lost have been drowning. Why can’t it stop? I’m tired of the ever-present possibility of someone being taken away, I’m tired of knowing that any given moment, everything can breakdown in front of me, leaving me to pick up what’s left of it. The weight of what’s been and gone crashes against my shoulders, knocking me down, breathless and scared. Disintegration. And then I realize, it’s me who’s lost in another world. Suddenly, I’m transported to the lonesome consolation of the bench that witnessed the raindrops making up my tears. _I ask for forgiveness_. I didn’t save them. _I want redemption_. They died. _But God has no mercy left for me_. I see myself crumbling inside out. _Robin_. I didn’t realize I had closed my eyes. _Bucky_. That was the day I met him. Piercing blue glows behind my eyelids and a wave of warmth tickles my toes. Bucky looking at me with the very stars twinkling in his eyes; Bucky kissing me with love tangled around his tongue; Bucky leaving me for two months; Bucky leaving me for two weeks; Bucky leaving me forever. 

Why can’t it stop?

Bucky enters the apartment; his tall figure a strange shape of something familiar. There are water drops gathering at the ends of his hair and his skin has grown paler. He looks at me, but his heavy gaze never lands on mine, like he’s avoiding any visual encounter. He doesn’t speak either, maybe afraid to break me with his mere voice. He just orbits around me, always keeping a safe distance, even though we fell asleep together last night. It’s unnerving the fact that I don’t want him to touch me. Like that time, like that day I broke our hearts; I don’t want him to be near me. He seems to know, or at least infer it, so he walks straight to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. The natural necessities of my body betray my unwillingness to eat.

Bucky settles a tray of food next to me, not even asking me to take it. It’s a simple meal: tea, yogurt and fruit, everything in small portions. I’m expecting him to keep me company, but he walks away to wash the dishes. He’s not giving me the cold shoulder, he’s modestly granting me the space he knows I need. I try to eat everything on the plate, but the medicine in my stomach prevents it from keeping more than a few bites. Bucky removes the tray. We’ve been here before, when my brother died. Silence and hurt. He isn’t forcing anything on me, although he should, but he knows, more than anyone, that sometimes is better to step back. What begins to worry me is how am I going to take a shower. The cast can’t get wet and I don’t think I can stand being sit for too long, but I require a proper bath because my own body feels repulsive. I find myself not standing its smell and its limpness. Bucky notices my uneasiness, and he approaches silently, kneeling in front me of with an afflicted frown wrinkling on his forehead. 

‘I could give you more painkillers,’ he suggests, against the prescription and probably the doctor’s instructions. I shake my head. 

‘I want to shower, but…’ I look at my leg, and one of my hands unconsciously slides a little bit down to my center; Bucky’s jaw tenses. He knows I trust him, that I’d let him help me, that I should allow him to touch me as much as needed, but he also knows I can’t. Not now. He nods and stands up, leaving me confused at his sudden actions. Then, when I’m about to turn around, I hear streaming water. He’s not in the bathroom, in fact, he walked back to the kitchen and, as I turn to look at what he’s doing, he’s filling a big bowl with water. He heads towards the bathroom and comes back with my shampoo, along with soap and a towel in his hands.

‘Would you– would you lean backwards so I can wash your hair?’ He asks as he positions himself behind me. My shoulders stiffen and I look at him, insecure at his request. ‘Please?’ I give him a tiny nod, still doubtful, and he carefully adjusts me so my head is slightly hanging over the edge of the bed. The silence is eating at our ears, making the minutes run lethargically, too slow for us to catch up. He massages my scalp and washes my hair ever so gently. He dries it and brushes it, so lovingly that I don’t even feel the metallic fingers against my head. He doesn’t do anything before asking if I’m okay with it, that’s how he proceeds with my arms and my shoulders. The soap leaves a fresh sensation on my skin, and he’s careful not to wet the mattress, never moving me more than necessary. He seems to read my thoughts because he avoids touching me for too long. Bucky wraps several plastic bags around the cast, making tight knots at the ends to make sure the water doesn’t reach inside. He works quietly, keeping my legs as near as possible.

‘Did you talk to Costin?’ I ask randomly and Bucky’s hand stops washing my foot. He lifts his gaze and nods, swallowing, uncertain. ‘What did you tell him?’ It’s merely a question, my tone neutral, but it doesn’t matter how much I want it to be casual, Bucky’s demeanor turns uneasy. 

‘You fell off a staircase,’ he begins, clearing his throat when the answer comes out somehow gruff. He looks down again, focusing on his previous task. ‘I’m your friend James, and you were visiting me at Salonta when Liana called you. Then you fell off a staircase, broke your leg and I took you to the hospital.’ He further explains, going for the general details of the fake incident. To be honest, it makes sense that something like that had happened to me, and most importantly, it’s the perfect alibi: I wasn’t in the city, so I couldn’t help Liana right away. I called Costin, then, in my urgency, I tripped and fell off the stairs, and my very good friend James took me to the hospital, that’s why I wasn’t answering my phone. It’s simple and reasonable. Besides, I went missing for only a couple of days.

Bucky finishes cleaning me up and I actually feel a bit better. If not totally clean, at least I’m more comfortable. He looks inside my closet for clean clothes, taking out the only black dress I own, that same dress I was wearing the day we met. I wonder if he remembers it. He places the dress, neatly folded, on my lap and heads out of the apartment to give me some privacy, not before asking if I can put it on myself. I do struggle to do it, because half of my body is beaten-up while the other half is mostly doped by painkillers. I manage, barely, taking the shirt Bucky put on me off, and sliding the dress over my head with great difficulty. I wince at the ache of my muscles and bones. Bucky enters the room and helps me putting on a shoe and a coat, handing me a pair of crutches I have no idea where he got. Crutches are somehow familiar to me; countless were the times Irina or Liev broke one of my legs. Bucky observes me practicing with them for a couple of minutes before I head towards the door. He follows me in silence, helping me hobbling downstairs, out of the building. I feel nowhere near good enough to try such activity, I’m dizzy and practically panting by the time I reach the exit, but I try to ignore the soreness between my thighs and the burning of my lungs because I have to do this. 

Bucky stands behind me, people walking down the street mingling with the dirty air and cloudy shadow of the day. 

‘Do you want me to take you on the–?’

‘I’ll take a taxi.’ I cut him off, harshly, and I hail a taxi that pulls over, right in front of us. I avert his gaze as I climb on the vehicle, and not even his fingertips brush over my skin as he helps me do it.

My eyes get stuck in my skull, my head refuses to turn, but I feel a trace of blue following me around the corner. I give the address to the driver, and he doesn’t force a conversation during the ride. Thank Zeus. The buildings become a mass of gray painting through the glass of the window, then unexpected raindrops wash away the sad color and the blue doesn’t reach to me anymore. The world gets colder, lonelier, far lonelier than ever before. 

The funeral home is fifteen minutes away from my building, and I curse under my breath when I realize I didn’t bring my purse, just some cash to pay the taxi. In contradiction to my previous gratitude, I would have liked some music to endure the thick silence surrounding me. Anxiety creeps up my chest. It clings to every single one of my nerves, making my fingertips tremble on my thighs, forcing the air of my lungs to come out along with a shiver, a quivering, cold blow sliding out of my mouth. I close my eyes, count to ten and then backwards until I lose count of how many lifetimes have gone by. The fifteen minutes travel through black holes and distorted images of a broken smile, and before I have the time to decode them, I open my eyes to see the taxi parking in front of the funeral home. I pay and the driver looks worryingly at my shaking hand. No one helps me out of the car; only my chest is strong enough to carry my heart towards the entry. 

A young woman asks for a name, her heels pierce the marbled floor. _Liana_. Everything is black and white, cold blooded and bare. _Budescu, Liana_. Wounded laughs echo through the cleanness. _This way_. Disgusting. I’m offered the elevator and a wheelchair, but I shake my head, smiling politely at the man ready to assist me. More silence follows me up and my stomach is struggling to keep the tea and the fruit inside. The door opens to reveal multiple figures standing outside the room: number nine. All eyes settle upon me, all heads turn in my direction, and all silent voices question my presence. I take a step forward and begin to make my way where her name is on display for anyone to acknowledge, welcomed or not. 

It’s a big room, probably the biggest one, and people step aside to let me in, curious looks following me close behind. And then I spot it: her casket. She’s in there. She is there. The undeniable reality of what happened and what will never come back to us. Not a single tear falls. A wave of nausea hits me with mighty force, overthrowing the remains of my strength. A couple of arms hold me before I crumble, two pairs of feet hurry to guide me towards the nearest chair and I forget about the crutches. Their eyes follow my every movement, worried, and my ribs let go of my heart when I meet them. Costin is the first to reach to me, wrapping his long arms around me. He hides his face in the space between my shoulder and neck, right above my collarbone. He’s holding me so close that I can breathe his dried tears and unspoken fear. A shorter man leans down to me, his candid and comforting expression lifting something heavy off my chest. Costin lets go of me, and Mr. Tanase cups my cheek, a sad smile breaking through the silence.

‘ _Dear one, I’m so sorry_.’ He hugs me too, and I let out a relieved sigh because, for the first time since Bucky found me, I feel completely safe. It hurts to even think about it. Mr. Tanase squeezes my upper-arm and breaks the embrace, letting out a tired sigh. I feel an intense glare boring into me, penetrating the flesh and settling in the very center of my being. And there she is.

Her eyes are red and swollen, her mouth dry and her skin pale, she’s wearing black like everyone else around us, but her eyes are a way too familiar shade of blue. She has _her_ eyes, that same bright, warm sky of April. No blue has ever hurt like this, like a fresh open wound, like a broken bone, like a stinging cut. She looks at me like _she_ did for the last time, defeated. I know who she is, even if this is the first time we see each other. I straighten up, a sudden rush of energy stopping the trembling of my hands and legs.

‘ _Hello, I’m– I’m Robin, ma’am_.’ My voice is hoarse, it sounds like anything but me, and I outstretch my hand for her to shake. She ignores it, walking pass Mr. Tanase and Costin to engulf me in the warmest, tightest embrace I’ve felt in timeless years. In that moment, something jolts in the depths of my mind, the secret memory of a woman, just like her, who used to sing lullabies and kiss my forehead in the earliest darkness of the night. 

‘ _Thank you_.’ She whispers, whimpers. I take several seconds to hug her back, the initial shock easing off, letting me lift my arms to surround her sobbing shoulders. I don’t know why she’s thanking me. She wouldn’t know, she shouldn’t, because there are so many things hidden in the space between our pain that she could be crushed by the horrible truth they conceal. ‘ _I won’t ever be able to thank you enough for what you did_.’ Guilt gathers at the corner of my eyes. ‘ _Thank you, Robin._ ’ She repeats, but doesn’t understand why I don’t deserve her gratitude. 

She lets go of me and smiles the same sadness Mr. Tanase smiled at me. I give her a tiny nod and she turns around, walking back to a man covering his face with his palms, just as defeated, and I sit on the couch, the strength leaving my body as fast as it came. Costin sits next to me, his father has gone to get us coffee, at least that’s what I managed to hear. We share the gloom and quietness for a couple of minutes before he nudges my side.

‘ _How is your leg?_ ’ I look at him and I finally see the dark circles under his big, green eyes. His always neat, combed hair is now disheveled, played by the uncertainty of the past two days. I clear my throat.

‘ _Fine, I guess._ ’ I’m sure he doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t answer or questions me, instead he keeps looking at me with fearful irises, like there is too much in his mind to give it form and speak again. It takes him a few seconds, and then he lets out a bitter laugh. 

‘ _God, Robin. You have no idea how worried we were._ ’ He shakes his head, dropping his shoulders and covering his face with frustrated hands.

‘ _I’m sorry_ ,’ the apology comes out with a muffled sob, making him turn back to me and put an arm around my shoulders, scooting me closer.

‘ _When you hung up, I immediately called the police, but then you weren’t picking up and we thought he had done something to you too._ ’ He says, his concern and despair are clear in every word. ‘ _Then we heard about the explosion and–_ ’ my head snaps to him, brows knitted together.

‘ _Explosion? What explosion?_ ’ There’s slight panic in my tone. I ignore the reason.

‘ _There was an explosion at Andrei’s house. The police couldn’t determine the precise cause of the fire, and he was still inside when everything blew up_ ,’ Costin explains, but he leaves me with yet more questions. I don’t remember hearing an explosion when Bucky took me out, but then, I wouldn’t remember any detail because I was unconscious before we got to the car. I don’t have to feign disbelief, because I honestly didn’t expect such revelation, still, another feeling swells in my stomach, something like horror and disgust. ‘ _I’m not glad about it, but I don’t feel sorry for him either_.’ Costin seems to phrase my own mixed feelings, and then a soft smile tugs at his thin lips. ‘ _I can’t imagine what we’d done if something had actually happened to you_.’ I almost cry all over again after his honest expression of relief, a heartening smile appearing on my own lips. ‘ _Well, something did_.’ He gestures my leg and we chuckle. ‘ _Thanks God James was there_ ,’ my smile disappears.

‘ _Yes. Yes, he was_.’ There should be gratitude in my statement, there should be love and gentleness, but there’s only detachment and indifference. I know the cause of the explosion, what I can’t figure out is what to think or feel of it. Costin frowns.

‘ _I didn’t know you had more friends in Romania_.’ I squirm in my place, getting uncomfortable. Such a comment; it’s somehow out of place because my private life is separated from my job, and he’s aware that I’m not the kind of person who shares much about anything, but he also knows that I don’t have much to share. If that makes any sense.

‘ _I met him recently_.’ I shrug to make it seem like it’s not an important fact. 

‘ _Why didn’t he come? I thought he brought you all the way back from Salonta_.’ Of course he’d expect that; it’s logical. Your friend, the one you cared about enough to go visit at the other side of the country, the one who took you to the hospital and came with you to make sure you were okay, isn’t here where you’re supposed to need him the most. The friend who told you about Liana’s death isn’t here and I can’t explain why.

‘ _He did. I just–_ ’ I choke a bit, grimacing. ‘ _I wanted to do this on my own_ ,’ that’s part true, although Costin translates my reaction in a different way, humming at my confession.

‘ _Would you thank him for me? I asked him to tell you when it was me who…_ ’ he trails, looking down, ashamed. I take his hand and give him a light squeeze.

‘ _I will. I promise_.’ I assure and he smiles, regaining some confidence.

Mr. Tanase comes back with three cups of coffee. The gesture evokes memories that leave a bittersweet taste on my mind, and I cherish it the second it lasts. I try to ignore the explosion situation because I don’t have the brains to ponder on it. Not now, not here.

We chat for a while, always quiet and respectful towards the Budescu’s family and friends. Liana’s parents, Ionela and Emilian, if I remember correctly, look at me from time to time, making sure I’m well and just still there, like my presence means something to them. Perhaps, in their understanding, I’m the reason their daughter was found, but they should know, I’m also the reason she was killed. They should know, they must, because it’s the least I can do for them. They deserve the truth. _But Bucky…_ I had to tell them why Andrei hurt Liana, explain how did I escape from him, and I simply _can’t_.

A battle unleashes inside of me. If they knew, if I’d tell them, but then I would expose Bucky and everything we’ve been trying to protect. Bucky would have to leave and I wouldn’t ever see him again. That would be the end, and I don’t have the strength to lose the only person I have left. I love him, even though I don’t want his fingers touching me, I don’t want his eyes looking at me with love and yearning. I will forgive him, and in time, I will love him the way I did. Mr. Tanase startles me, forcing my eyes to focus back on the present and listen to him.

‘ _We should get going, son_.’ He says to Costin and the young man stands up. ‘ _Are you staying, dear one? Or do you want us to take you home_?’ I purse my lips, considering his offer. I don’t want to stay here alone, but it feels wrong to leave this soon. I didn’t bring my medicine, and the painkillers are wearing off, my abdomen already hurting more than a few minutes ago. Besides, Bucky will probably destroy half the city looking for me, or in the worst case, he will barge in the funeral home with machine guns and bazookas. 

‘ _I’ll go with you_ ,’ that last thought was enough to clear my doubts. It doesn’t matter why I don’t want to go back home, I have to do it, against my best attempts to deny it. ‘ _Thank you, sir._ ’ They help me stand up, handing me the crutches and waiting patiently for me to adjust my legs to a standing position. I wanted to thank Liana’s parents before leaving, but they’re nowhere to be found, not even Costin seems to spot them from above the sea of heads around us. It’s when we’re about to step out of the room that we turn to a voice calling for me. It’s Liana’s father.

‘ _Miss Dawson_ ,’ he waves at me, hurrying towards us. He stops right in front of me and I take in his spent demeanor: the reddish skin of his eyelids, deprived from sleep or any kind of rest, the pale tone of his cheeks and lips, and the endless hollowness of his brown eyes. He opens and closes his mouth several times, unable to formulate a sentence. ‘ _Thank you for being here_ ,’ he finally utters and a heavy sob rips thorough his words. I’m fighting back tears yet again. ‘ _Thank you for giving her a chance–_ ’ He pulls me into a hug and I lose the fight against the tears. ‘ _Thank you_ ,’ he repeats. ‘ _Thank you_ ,’ and repeats until both of our crying ceases. 

Mrs. Budescu appears behind him and gives me one last hug before guiding her husband to a private room. The image of their hopeless, fatigued figures will hunt my dreams until the day I close my eyes forever. I won’t forget how it felt to turn my back on them, to let them believe I saved their daughter, and I won’t forget how it felt to leave her behind one more time, cold and alone, surrounded by flowers and loved ones.

Mr. Tanase and Costin asked me if I was coming next day on our way to my building, but I flat out refuse to endure the sight of Liana’s casket being buried. It would be too much. It already is. I simply answered I wasn’t ready to face such event, and they nodded without digging further into the matter. I’ve always appreciated their discretion and respect towards sensible subjects. It’s nice I’m not obligated to explain myself to anyone. The ride remains quiet, except for the soft music playing on the car’s radio, and when we arrive at my building, they make sure I’m standing, safe and sound, in front of my door before leaving. I was reluctant to let them in, because I didn’t want them to see him, even though it was only logical, again, that he would be waiting for me here. I thank them, promising to call them if I needed anything. Then, I open an unlocked door to find an empty apartment.

I wait for the disappointment to make my shoulders drop, but all I feel is gladness, relief that he’s not around. It worsens my emotional state, not just because it’s an unfamiliar reaction, but also because it doesn’t feel right. I shake my head, closing the door behind me and heading towards the bed, where I lay down carefully, dropping the crutches next to the mattress while I beg for sleep to take me far away from this. This minute, this world, this now. I can’t keep holding up, facing what it’s gone, living what I’ve done. I’m tired of the permanent agony and threatening loneliness. Before more dreadful thoughts cloud my dying rationality, sleep finally takes me into its peaceful wing.

I wake up to a dim light, a reading lamp I guess, and the smell of coffee fills my nostrils as I blink several times before my eyes adjust to the environment. Someone is tapping at a keyboard, slow and doubtful, and that same someone pulls back from a chair and walks over the bed. It’s him. He’s back. He’s looking down at me, concerned, expectant, and lovingly. Yes. There’s the hint of love making the blue I thought I lost around the corner grow darker as I sink into the mattress, hurt, yet my weak senses travel across that misery and bite at that love. I know it’s mine. Does he know mine’s his? 

‘Went out to get your medication.’ He whispers, grabbing something from the table. I prompt myself up, resting my weight on my elbows. I avoid looking straight at his face, keeping my vision stuck on his hands and the rest of his body’s motions. He places the pills on my lap, turning around to close the laptop and gather his stuff. He then pours some water on a cup and walks over, handing it to me. I sip at the cup with every pill I take, grimacing at the disturbing sensation of it moving down my throat. Bucky watches me, guarded and awkward, and once I’m finished, he makes his way towards the door. Before he steps out, without facing me, he asks: ‘Do you need anything? Did you eat something?’

The right answer is never spoken. It stays somewhere deep in my throat, burning the walls of my windpipe. I try to drag the words out of my mouth, but they refuse to do so, and in the brief moment of hesitation suspended in the air, the wires of my brain corrupt the information and what I say next shoots an arrow straight into Bucky’s heart, making both of us flinch at my words.

‘Costin told me about the explosion.’ Although Bucky does turn to look at me, his eyes crystalize, shielding any emotion from my gaze, and every angle of his body sharpens until he’s drawn by contained violence and dread. I ignore all of it, lifting my chin to accentuate the determination to get an answer. ‘What happened?’ I see his lips quiver for a second; the brief, quick movement isn’t dismissed by my dizzied senses. 

I follow the trail of the color of his cheeks and eyes dripping down from the skin, how his stance is yet again uptight, frightened, ready to fall, to burst, and the way his knuckles whiten in raw pressure shatters my sudden courage. The scenes I’ve missed from that night play in the emptiness of Bucky’s stare, I see him running, beating, killing, carrying a limp body far away from the house, and I see Andrei’s body burn in blood and fire.

‘I had to make him disappear,’ Bucky’s voice is distant, like he’s talking from the other side of the door, from the other side of the world, yet it’s so loud and heavy with meaning that it rumbles between the walls of the apartment. Something in his expression softens, exposing him for me to catch at glimpse of vulnerability and shame.

There is comfort tangled around my tongue. The impulse to soothe him, to stand up and wrap my arms around him and kiss his guilt away, to assure him that I still love him, that I understand why he did what he did, dyes along with the tiny spark of hope on his pleading eyes. I can’t bring myself to do what’s natural to me, and everything that I do, is to sink the arrow deeper into his chest.

‘You didn’t.’

The arrow breaks through completely, its tip peeking from the muscles of his back. The silence of his pain is earsplitting, his agony and helplessness hangs from his shoulders and the weight of my words finally brings his eyes down to the floor: he didn’t make him disappear. He’s still here, in my mind, in every abrupt thought of his name, in the flashing images of his raging face, in my body, in every bruise, every cut and every stich. It doesn’t matter how much blood Bucky spilled, how many times he hit him, the explosion couldn’t wipe out Andrei’s existence. He’s here, standing right between us, filling the hollow and forcing us to endure the distance. I close my eyes, consumed by fatigue, and when Bucky leaves, I know he won’t be coming back to me.

We drift further and further apart as days go by, and before I catch up with time, it’s too late to look back. 

It’s been a week since I last saw him. I wake up to a tray of food next to me and an empty room, I hear movement in the kitchen as water washes off sweat and grease from my body, and I go to sleep to a cold spot around my waist where the ghost of his embrace fades away in the middle of the night. By the second week, I find myself crying for him, telling him how much I miss him, begging him to stay with me, but my voice never reaches out of my dreams. Bucky’s smell has dried, his touch is rusted and his lips forgotten. The loneliness is thicker, nested more profoundly in my chest as the third week settles in. It terrifies me, how much Andrei’s presence has overcome Bucky’s in my life, how it grows and spreads like an infection, sickening me in my recovery. The pain is paradoxical: as my body heals, my soul falls ill. After one month, I get used to the synthetic awareness of Bucky’s interactions: he makes sure I take my medicine, that I’m comfortable, he cleans the apartment and cooks every meal for me, never letting me see him, depriving me from his presence. I was thankful for his distance at first; it provided relief because I didn’t want more than him. Then, his quiet steps became a routine, the monotony of his motions turned out disturbing, maddening, and now, now I ask myself what kind of painkiller is our love? 

He can’t leave me, not physically, much less emotionally, and I can’t bear the thought of letting him go. He keeps coming back to me without actually doing so, and I need him, I love him, in the most harmful, pathetic way. It has happened before, and it will happen again. He will leave, I will wait, and he’ll come back, but every time, it will be harder to fit between the cracks. He’s a wound that is left open, with no hope to heal, to scar, always fresh and stinging. How much will it take for this to break? How many days will we see until there is nothing more than comforting faces? How long until we become just someone that we used to know? And I realize, our nightmares weren’t hell: this is hell, Right here, where we’re nothing more than lifeless figures moving at every direction within the space. 

I only have the strength to mourn Liana, to accept her death and give myself the opportunity to miss her. Her loud laugh, her graceful movements around the café, her support and understand. It’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. I repeat to myself, begging for it to be a lie. The guilt refuses to leave me, it sticks to the walls of my conscience and its weight pushes me down until I forget how to breathe. My lungs constrict at the memory of the last time I saw her, laying on the floor, bathed in crimson tears. Andrei’s hands on me, his nails digging into my flesh, burning me, taking me away, and my screams filling the air with despair. Finally, when I’m numb, dizzy enough to break free from the pain, I look at Bucky’s blue eyes, so red with wrath, only to realize that it’s not over.

It will never be over.

‘ _You’re healing pretty good and fast._ ’ Doctor Sala says as he inspects my leg. He visits me once a week to update Bucky about my progress, and it seems it’s going better than I expected. I smile at him, genuinely thankful for his attentions. He smiles back and turns to look at Bucky, who’s standing by the kitchen counter, observing from a distance, facing my back, as usual. ‘ _Someone must be taking care of you quite well_.’ The corners of my mouth drop, drawing a thin line across my face. He notices the change in my demeanor, but says nothing and proceeds with the evaluation. ‘ _How is it doing?_ ’ He gestures at that place between my thighs and I let out a heavy sigh. 

It hurt, it stung, some days more than others, the ache dimmed enough to let me move and do the simplest things, like sitting straight and turn around without grimacing. To shower was beyond difficult, the fear of even touching there tugged at the strings of my fingers and I would stay under the stream of water until it got ice cold. The painkillers helped, but it was time that healed the injuries. And Bucky’s devoted care, I remind myself.

‘ _Much better_ ,’ I’m not lying. It’s easier to do practically everything.

‘ _Is there any stinging? Smell?_ ’ I shake my head. ‘ _Bleeding?_ ’ I gulp. There was some bleeding in the early days, but as soon as I asked Doctor Sala about it, he assured it might be due to the uncompleted cicatrization and harsh, sudden movements. ‘ _Is your period normal?_ ’ I nod and his smile widens. He takes out a bag full of white boxes, and takes out one of them. I gave up trying to figure out what they were and what their purpose was. They’re helping me to get better, and that’s all I care. ‘ _You’ll take these for another week, alright?_ ’ He tilts his head towards Bucky, directing the instruction more to him than to me. Bucky must have nodded, because Doctor Sala nods back and stands up. ‘ _If your leg keeps improving this good, I’ll remove the cast within two more weeks_.’ My tiny smile is genuine, showing an honest joy for recovering my full mobility. ‘ _Have a good day, miss._ ’ I thank him and he turns to Bucky, who walks him out of the apartment, closing the door behind him. I can still hear their voices in the corridor.

I lay down until they stop talking and Bucky’s door is closed. My morning routine consists of staring at the ceiling, listening to whatever plays on the iPod, or I read and contemplate the light change in the room as hours roll by. It’s midday of the next week when my cell phone buzzes in the wrong day, and when I glance at the screen, Costin’s number makes me frown. He and Mr. Tanase stop by on Tuesdays, they’re happy to hear that my recovery is going wonderful, and they stay for dinner to keep me company as much as they can, because Mrs. Tanase’s condition remains delicate. Bucky stays in his apartment, so when Costin asks me about “James,” I can freely lie to him. It saddens me, but it’s truth that I don’t really know much about him anymore. I pick up the phone, happy to talk to him and ask if they’ve changed plans.

‘ _Hey, how are–?_ ’

‘ _Robin_ ,’ he cuts me off and I immediately know something’s wrong. ‘ _My mom…_ ’ I drop the phone and everything turns into a blur.

Bucky barges in as soon as my quiet sobbing becomes a set of heavy gasps. I hear him asking me what happened, why am I crying, if I’m hurting anywhere. How do I tell him that I am hurting everywhere? That my bones have been crushed so many times, that my skeleton is cracked to the marrow? How do I tell him that the underside of my skin is mutilated by bruises and cuts? That my muscles are twisted and my veins are dry? How do I tell him that I am dead while still alive? Bitter tears fall down my cheeks and Bucky is helplessly trying to soothe me, avoiding any kind of touch; it doesn’t work. Only time, yet again, stops my tears from falling, second by second, and suffering is an old friend that I welcome with open arms. 

Bucky offers to escort me to the funeral house, but I don’t want him there, rising uneasiness instead of comfort while I’m surrounded by strange faces and the smell of death. He nods and helps me stand up to shower. Every movement has been rehearsed: take off your clothes, move in pain, the feeling of water crashing against my shoulders and head, put on that pretty black dress of yours, and walk with my chin lifted, facing every ghost and demon like we haven’t already battled for endless instants. Bucky seems slightly hesitant when I let him carry me downstairs and help me get inside the taxi, and his restraint is evident when he closes the door of the car, fighting back the urge, the _need_ , to climb in and make sure my life doesn’t slip through his fingers as he lets go of me.

Death. There is so much death sticking to the air, clashing against the glass of the windows as the taxi makes its way across the same streets Bucky and I once traveled through blinding supernovas and sparkling colors. There is so much death in the trained steps towards the funeral house, pulling me back, slowing down my feet, and there is so much death when I enter the room, that Costin’s figure, mingled with the black and red smearing my vision, passes unnoticed as he approaches to catch me before I fall. He takes me in his embrace, and I can’t help but flinch, rejecting the warmth it doesn’t provide, because even if my soul has forgotten it, every nerve blossoming on my skin yearns for someone else’s touch. He guides me to the nearest couch and I sit in numbness.

‘ _She didn’t suffer_ ,’ I hear Costin’s voice echoing inside my skull, reassuring and sad. He sounds tired, as tired as my whole being. Does he wonder if it’ll ever stop as much as me? Could be possibly know the answer?

I feel his palms rubbing my back, spreading a soft wave of comfort through the layers of clothes, skin and muscle. But I don’t respond, I only lift my eyes when Mr. Tanase is standing right in front of me, arms opening to wrap around my fragile, trembling shoulders.

‘ _Dear one_.’ His vocal cords tremble violently, and tears begin to fall as he leans down to kiss my forehead, the most fatherly gesture I’ve been given since I was seven years old. It makes me cry harder. ‘ _She really cared about you_ ,’ he whispers and my reply is drowned by a heavy sob. He stays with me, Costin silently crying by our side, until we get tired of never reaching the atonement from our suffering. It’s always too much... I can’t find the strength to acknowledge much of my motions, my thoughts, even my feelings. My life has become a dried tear. I have nothing more to lose, nothing more to give and lose, I’m hollow and lonesome. I can’t feel my heart. The burgundy casket is carried away from the room and Costin breaks down on the seat next to his father. It’s over. 

The next day remains blurry and distant; my fingertips are painted black with sorrow and darkness. Bucky ghosts around me, dancing among the shadows, avoiding the colors and the light, leaving me tasteless and raw. Days and days and days I keep my voice concealed in my lungs, I hide my eyes behind closed eyelashes, and as I lay bare to the world, tangled between the sheets, everything comes back to me: I let myself go. 

I’ve lost every single person I’ve loved. They’ve left me behind, they went to where I can’t follow, and in their absence, I haven’t learned how to embrace my solitude. I finally understand what it means to be alone, to be with yourself and be you in the plainness of an instant. I uncover my bones to allow that solitude to be carved in the marrow, to be part of me. I sleep, and my mind is free from dreams, at last. Those dreams that blend in with memories from a ruined childhood, from a nonexistent youth, and it’s not until I open my eyes that I welcome the authenticity of my life. I am alone. I’m alone with Bucky. Bucky. This broken person I thought was the one who healed disguised wounds and mended twisted nerves… But he never really did, he couldn’t, because it was me who, at the end, restrained the cracks and scars. It was my blind hope for redemption, my anger and despair; they led the path towards a clean place where blood and snow couldn’t step in. At the end, it was a multi-shaped love what built up a forgotten soul: the sad love for my family, the selfless love for my friends, and the evanescent love for Bucky. If I haven’t loved them like I still do, I wouldn’t have been running from them, I wouldn’t have fought and lost. I wouldn’t have understood what it means to keep moving forward.

Feelings return to my chest, I sense their tickling in my stomach, and when I straighten myself up, the cast on my leg has been removed. Blinking time is the answer to unspoken questions, and I realize, it’s been more that a couple of hours. A couple of weeks. And I’m fully recovered when Costin sits in front of me in the kitchen table, defeated and consumed.

‘ _He wants to move to Dobrich_ ,’ he comments. He’s been talking about the aftermath of his mother’s passing way, how his father has been grieving, but oddly enough, he hasn’t told me how he is dealing with it. I frown.

‘ _Are you going with him?_ ’ Costin sighs, looking up at me. The green of his eyes turns two or three shades of gray darker. He purses his lips, troubled, doubtful, and although I already know the answer he will speak, his irises betray whatever word he could possibly utter.

‘ _He will sell off the café and the house, so there won’t be much left here for me_ ,’ his shoulders crash against the floor, like he’s been carrying his very own mother’s casket. A sob mingles with his breathing. ‘ _There won’t–_ ’ everything gets stuck in his throat. He crumbles inside out, tears pouring out of the corner of his eyes, falling down his prominent cheekbones and pale skin. I reach out and take his hand in mine, giving it a light squeeze in a sympathetic gesture. Next thing I know, he’s kneeling in front of me, face buried in my lap and fingers clinging to the fabric of my shirt like the claws of a desperate animal. 

‘ _Costin._ ’ I whisper, curling on top of him to protect him from that feeling of lost that is scarily familiar. He clings tighter. He empties his pain over my clothes, getting them wet and making them wrinkled. I try to soothe him with delicate caresses and gentle silence. I play with his hair in a maternal manner, watching the trembling of his shoulders slowly disappear with every minute and hour ticking on the clock. Costin stands up, but refuses to cut off the contact, keeping his hands linked to mine. They’re warm and soft. ‘ _I should go_ ,’ he announces and I nod. We step away from the table, hand in hand, to head towards the door. He never lifts his eyes from the floor.

‘ _Let me know when you’re leaving, so I can stop by and say goodbye_ ,’ I ask and give him the most honest smile that has been drawn on my mouth since I don’t remember how long. It seems he sees through the effort, so he returns the tiny smile. But then, then something changes in the shade of his eyes, an unsettling light sparkling in the green. I drop my hand.

‘ _Maybe you don’t have to_.’ Something hurts, something just doesn’t feel right. He opens and closes his mouth several times, unsure and shy, and it only serves on increase my awkwardness. A sudden wave of nausea makes me seek for support on the nearest surface. ‘ _Would you come?_ ’ Would I? The question is more complicated than Costin imagines. Since I arrived in Bucharest, I never truly thought about a future, what I could or would do in the long term. Leaving never seemed an option, until now. I could leave, I actually have the power and will to decide weather to stay or go. But why does it seem this hard? Why am I afraid to leave? ‘ _It could be a new start… for all of us._ ’ Costin is offering me a chance to change something in my life. I never thought about a future, because I didn’t dare to even imagine one. Now, someone wants me with them; someone will take care of me if I leave, someone will love me. Bucky is no longer the only one. There is another possibility, another chance. But I can’t leave him. _I can’t_. I can’t…

‘ _I– I can’t._ ’ The sadness in Costin’s expression burns more into my skin than the scar between my shoulder blades. It’s bittersweet honesty. He smiles in blind understanding, and then he takes a step forward, putting his hand on my shoulder and looking at me with straight pleading tenderness. 

‘ _Would you do me a favor then, please?_ ’ I blink, confused, but I give him a tiny nod, incapable of denying anything to him. ‘ _Check on the café every now and then_.’ I let out a shaky laugh, too weak that I almost miss it, and Costin’s smile spreads so wide that his contentment mirrors in my eyes. I nod harder and wrap my arms around his neck, bringing him down in a tight hug that ignites a tickling in my belly and leaves me breathless. We laugh as we say goodbye with newfound joy. It’s a melancholic, kind of sad joy, because even though we are going to part ways, there is friendship in our embrace. 

The door opens. Bucky steps in. We turn around as we untangled ourselves in a rushed movement. And I witness how Bucky’s heart is ripped to shreds inside his chest. It happens so fast that he almost doesn’t have time to hide it behind a cold expression. He closes the door and approaches to us, guarded, uptight. Broken, so broken. 

‘ _Costin, this is James._ ’ I say, maybe too hurried, coughing. This is not the way I expected to introduce them. I didn’t even contemplate introducing them.

‘ _It’s nice to meet you._ ’ Costin immediately outstretches his hand to greet Bucky, genuinely glad. I feel my whole body stiffen, worried about what Bucky’s reaction will be. But he plays along, leaving me astonished at his jovial grin and perfectly civil manner of greeting Costin back.

‘ _Likewise_.’ He shakes Costin’s hand and they share a polite nod.

‘ _Thank you for taking care of Robin, I’m glad someone will stick around_.’ Waves of nausea weaken my knees and Bucky’s jaw tightens with such strength, that I’m sure the bone will splinter. He smiles and nods again. ‘ _You both can come visit us anytime_ ,’ I let out a dry chuckle. When Costin finally senses the uncomfortable atmosphere, he clears his throat and gestures at the exit. ‘I’ll take my leave.’ He gives me a final, quick hug, kissing my cheek before heading towards the door. I feel my skin burning in mortification when he walks out of the apartment, and I stay there, standing still in the middle of the living room, dumbfounded and surreal, until my limbs go numb. 

‘This is the last dose.’ Bucky lifts the bag of my medicine, placing it on the mattress, and his quiet voice is so vibrant with hurt, it makes my heart drop to my stomach and my palms become sweaty. I don’t look at him, I can’t. I’m too ashamed, too remorseful for unknown reasons. ‘I’ll be in my apartment,’ he whispers, following the trail that Costin’s shoes left behind his departure. It meant nothing. I repeat to myself. It was nothing, yet I don’t understand: why did it feel like something? 

‘You should accept his offer.’ His words cut through flesh and bone, making my head snap to his direction. I frown, not only because I don’t comprehend his suggestion, but also because he’s speaking directly to me for the first time in weeks. Gruff and tired, his tone is suddenly too loving for a brief moment. This is the moment when I fully take in his appearance: open wounds under his fingertips, dried tears on the corner of his eyes, fresh cuts and bruises on his knuckles. Desolation and despair all over his face, weeping and yelling in his throat, and emptiness in his chest. 

‘Where is his love? 

‘You should go with them.’ 

I can’t feel it anymore.

We stare at each other for ages turned into seconds. His irises are drained of color and life, my hair reflecting on them, artificial blue in the cruelest winter: he doesn’t love me anymore. I know. I _see_ it. In the way a thin, sharp line draws his lips, in the thick detachment of his gaze, and in his motionless, how he doesn’t reach to me. Bucky doesn’t love me anymore. I know. I _feel_ it. But then, why would he? I slaved his love. He stays because he doesn’t want to be alone, even if staying means he will. Alone with me.

Where is my love? 

‘Do you– do you want me to go?’ 

He can’t feel it anymore.

‘I’m just thinking about–’

I inhale sharply, tears already falling down my cheeks. 

I can’t feel my heart.

‘Do you want me to go?’

The prolonged silence crushes us down and there is nothing to be fixed. Bucky doesn’t love me anymore. All remaining life and air burst out of my lungs, and I don’t remember anything hurting this much.

For as long as I’ve lived, I’ve experienced so many different kinds of pain: brutal, physical pain inflicted by those who were supposed to protect me from it. I’ve felt the tip of a knife brush over my spine, its stinging still burning under the healed wounds. That lonely pain that those whom we loved and lost leave behind a long a lament they sing to us at night. But nothing like this, never like this. It’s a new suffering that runs up and down your body, drilling in and out your heart. It poisons your veins and twists your stomach; it washes off the blue and shuts down the stars.

‘I want you to go.’ Bucky is looking at me intently. His words are firm, leaving no room for hesitation or debate. ‘There’s nothing left for you here,’ I close my eyes, letting the truth sink in. Deep, very deep inside, I know he’s right. We’ve reached a point where none of us can take much more, we’ve spent far more life than we could, and Bucky, in his naïve wisdom, is trying to tell me that I don’t have to keep giving to lose. ‘And you have the chance to start over.’ I want to tell him that I know, because I ask for this to end, I wanted it to end. ‘You should take it.’ Yes, I should. But…

‘I don’t want to,’ don’t I? I open my eyes, pleading to Bucky to erase what he just said, to make it unreal and take me back to the start.

Only that he doesn’t. He sighs, finally looking down, turning his back to me. _Come back_. He opens the door, lingering just a bit, standing under the threshold, shaky hands gripping the doorknob. _Come back to me_. Bucky steps out and I have never loved him this much.

No. I have never loved anyone like this. This much that hurts, this much that sickens; this much that thrives, and this much that shines. I love Bucky Barnes with a love that can only be felt, not spoken of, nor thought of. I love him with a love that is not meant to die, or kill, a love that lives. I love Bucky Barnes, but he’s letting go of me. He’s given up, and there is no hardest truth than realizing that I let him go first. Although he stayed by my side, he took care of me, not because he felt guilty, or because he pitied me, but because he loved me, my grief overcame my love and my forgiveness. I was blinded by the loss of Liana, by my tiredness, and every day Bucky was there, I didn’t remind him that I still love him. It might not be our fault that we didn’t know how to mend the broken, but the sudden rage surging inside of me it’s the immediate consequence. I’m angry at both of us, angry at his lack of will, because he is not fighting for me, and I’m angry with myself, because I’m striding towards the bathroom, because I put on heavy makeup and take out that glittery dress, putting on high-heels and perfume, because I don’t stop in my tracks when I leave behind the apartment and then the building. I’m angry because I’m being weak as I climb on the taxi.

‘ _Where to, miss?_ ’

I look at the reflection in the rearview mirror: smoky eyes look back at me and bright, red lipstick smiles at me. 

‘ _Downtown._ ’

God, I haven’t seen her in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello?
> 
> Yes, it's me.
> 
> I know, it's been a while...
> 
> I don't really know what to say, I mean, things have been weird and crazy these past months. But I'm happy, really, and I hope I wasn't wrong about this, because I still want to write about Robin and Bucky. And I hope that you still like this story. 
> 
> I want to hear from you before I say anything else, but you have to know that next chapter is going to be worse. So, brace yourselves. 
> 
> Also, I want to me an announcement: Winter Robin will end soon...er than I expected. I will reduce the number of chapters to 30, but you'll still get A LOT. I'll be just cutting off some stuff that I considered not-that-important to the story plot. And, the main reason is that I'm working on a new fic that will hopefully blow your minds. It's gonna be big and completely different from what I've written before. I'll give you a tiny spoiler: Winter Robin will be finished by may, and when I update the last chapter, I'll release the first one of the new fic.
> 
> PLEASE, i beg your forgiveness. I truly hope you read me and comment, leave kudos, questions, reviews, ANYTHING. You know I always answer.
> 
> Last, but not less important, HUGE THANKS to arizona poppy for being the best beta reader in the multiverse. This wouldn't be posible without her help. Thank you so much!
> 
> Hope you had a wonderful time these holidays :D


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